Inside My Head

the literary rantings of Angie Frissore


I stared at the phone, knowing he wouldn’t call, but hoping it would ring anyway, before finally growing bored with the frustration of it all.  He wasn’t going to call back – he never called back when he said he would.   And thus begins the cycle.

I had fallen back into the routine of him; a sentimental moment of desire, confessions of some kind of emotion, and then, fall to the back burner and become merely an afterthought.  Perhaps there was a part of my subconscious that tried to negate feelings of single-hood-induced loneliness by clinging onto these tiny scraps of pseudo-relationship that we had between us.  Could I trust my so-called feelings when it came to Damon or was it simply just the manifestation of this desire to feel wanted by someone?

Somewhere early on in this…thing we had, he had dropped the bombshell announcement that he was never really looking for a committed relationship.  For all the times I tried to walk away, we were always brought back together.  I knew it would never be what I wanted – what I needed – it to be, and yet I continually subjected myself to this emotional torture.

On better days I attributed it to a greater meaning – some idealistic fantasy in which we’re destined to be together.  On most days, however, I simply compared my addiction to Damon to my addiction to nicotine – I knew it was bad for me, but I did it anyway.  Because it felt good.

And he did feel good.  The seldom times we did spend together were always mind-blowing and amazing, and laced with an underlying subtle romanticism that left me starry-eyed.  There was always a flip side though; there were the in-between times when I wanted to share things with him and I couldn’t.  He had always made it clear that he could never give me what I wanted, and I tried to convince myself that I really didn’t need him in that facet anyway.  But I did need him, on some level, and it seemed that my need for him would become my undoing.

The phone rang, startling me, and I looked to see who it was.  It was my mother.  Dejected, I sent the call directly to voicemail, turned the phone off, and went to bed.


November 6, 2008 - Posted by | No Messages - Excerpts from the Draft | , ,


  1. deep

    Comment by howard | November 7, 2008 | Reply

  2. Very good writing, Ang. Shit, make sure you talk to your publisher about ole Mike here.

    Comment by Mike | November 7, 2008 | Reply

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