What do I write about when nothing hurts?

I don't have a muse. Just rage.

I must admit, my diary entries have been rather sparse as of late. It appears I am without a muse.

In the words of the great Ariana Shaniqua Grande, I have no tears left to cry.

To the delight of my ex boyfriend, Mr Man, the yearning has stopped dead in its tracks. He starved me out and he won.

Congrats, sir. Come collect your prize. I no longer give a fuck.

So I’ve rejoined the dating app that begins with R.

*internal screams.

Field Notes from The Trenches:

The last time I logged in was a month or two after the breakup, back when I was still in my ever so embarrassing soft girl, Martha Stewart, marry-me era.

All the photos I’d initially uploaded onto my profile post-breakup were of a different girl: sweet, smiling, docile, harmless and without any edge.

I was still begging to be loved.

Poor fucking thing.

I quickly replaced all the photos with the kind of photos that scream:

I may ruin your life. Or at least the best part of a year. But trust me… one of us will enjoy it. I hope it’s me.

Then I changed my occupation back to professional dream seller and I was all set.

Back to the way I was before Mr Man: enigmatic, funny, sharp, dark. Walls sky-high and paper-thin.

Just enough to reel them in before I ultimately disappoint them with the reality of my very human emotions.

---

Friday, 21 November 2025

10:58 am

I think I’m truly getting over him. I’ve said it a few times over the last few months but only now do I believe it to be true. I was saying it before but my heart would’ve skipped a beat if he called and I’d have gone running back in seconds. Now?? Fuck no. I’m genuinely a different bitch. I don’t recognise the girl I was six months ago. And I do mean girl. I was behaving like a petulant, stupid, ignorant, pathetic little girl, still trying to earn love like a sticker chart.