I’m jealous of your freedom. My stories are written in notepads hidden away and taken out for therapy, just so I can have one person that isn’t me bear witness to past events that have been so unacknowledged that I sometimes don’t trust my memory of them. It is the reason I allow myself any contact with him at all…because he never fails to show his true colors and this reinforces my belief in myself and my recollection. I haven’t had a chance yet to read, I’m at work. But I look forward to It, and feel a little sick to my stomach at the same time.

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I know I want it to be spelled right and punctuated correctly. I guess that’s something.

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