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Okaaaaaaay... this is BAaaaaaaaaaAd...

Mark - the utterly sweet and adorable guy whom I only treat as a close friend, but not a romantic interest took his interest in me one step further by turning up at my doorstep at 6 am this morning and escorted me to work... Is this normal for a guy????

Some days I really wonder... why is it that the guys you want never want you? and the guys you don't want just haunt you???????????

Had a big fight him HIM yesterday night... it got soooo bad that I was questioning him on his love... And guess what, he just logged off, not even replying to me, to assure me that everything was fine... I kinda think that it's a lost cause now... Of course, being the neurotic girl I was, I actually picked up the phone 5 times and tried calling him 5 times, but never completed dialling the number... DOES ANYONE OUT THERE KNOW ANY PILLS I CAN TAKE FOR THIS MADNESS?????????????

*sigh* I'm terribly tired, seeing that I couldn't sleep cos I was at odds with the one... and I had to drag myself out of bed at 6 am to find the other guy ready to escort me to work... Anyway... now for one of my favourite quotes...

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die - to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause - there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
(Hamlet III.i. 56-88)

{v} Me...