|| the kid is not my son ||
A few days ago, I bit the bullet and paid off my hospital bill in full [credit cards: making procrastination possible!]. And after I hung up with the collections lady, I took a giant sharpie, wrote "PD IN FULL, 30 JANUARY 2007" on the bill, and stared at it with the eyes of a pre-schooler at a live Telly Tubbies show. I realized: it took nine months to the day to put the physical aspects of rape behind me. Think about it: I could've had a belly full o' child by now; and though I love babies, I've learned to count my blessings and name my limitations.
I re-read the letter I wrote him, and am proud - in hindsight - of the sheer amount of restraint I had.
Daft cunt wanking son of a bitch.
There. Done.
I'm going to curl up in bed and have a good (good good) cry -- and not because I'm sad, but because I need to remember in order to forget.
There's something very human about sleeping with your emotions.
It's way safer than being emotional while sleeping with a human.