Nothing has changed, not a thing. But something is wrong. I finish a book and cry. I know something is wrong and I know I’ve repressed this for a few days with story-telling and liquor and denial. Because I make big mistakes. I’m not the first. But I have bad habits, and they mostly include the salacious patterns I trace.
This is not the first time I’ve crossed the line. And I’m not upset about him. He is secondary. He is just a detail that will be wiped away with time and more story-telling and liquor and denial. I’m angry that I keep stepping over this obvious fucking line and then redrawing it willy-nilly in the sand. Again and again. I’m a smart girl. Why can’t I draw my line, an acceptable line, and plant my feet behind it? I say I want to follow my own rules.
And, you know, I would say more. But people read this and rumors spread. There are already rumors. Nothing changes, you know. Not a goddamned thing. I don’t need to tell you that.