Is that the end of me?

If someone would ask me, I would say 'no, I don't know this man anymore and I'd never been in love with him. He was just another passer by in my life.'

And now I'm sitting here on my black sofa, smoking marlboro one by one. One wise person once named it 'a dozen of cancer sticks'- only intelligents are able to get the truth out that way. I'm making some notes day by day in my diary, which is no longer a diary since I've started to write in it. It's more like a whore-book and sometimes I'm afraid to open certain pages. No need, though. I was told to go further- then I will do.

No other way. It's impossible to turn everything back, however, when I turn around I see these pictures as if it was yesterday. I wish it could be erased somehow, I don't give a damn and don't care how, but if there's a way, I have to know it, please.

Where's the point for me to see the second teeth-brush in a glass in my bathroom? Where's the point in three cans of beer in the fridge, not for me? Where's the point in two towels instead of one? Where's the point in buying twice more food in a supermarket? Where's the point to watch TV before sleeping, looking how the fourth can of beer is getting empty and feeling an arm hugging you? Where is the point in two packs of cigarettes while there was always one, marlboro lights, no any dunhill? Some call THESE harmony, happiness, ideal atmoshere. For me as a can'tletthepastfadeaway-girl it's all just a one big play, like in theatres. Drama&comedy all together.

How hard it is to be an actor. I guess, that's not my profession at all. I'll finally give up. That will be great. A drama right in the centre of a comedy.