This is not objectifying. It’s the breasts that have cancer.
It’s the breasts that have cancer.
I get a diagnosis. Julien tells people, “I’m having a hard time these days. It’s really stressful. [Gets choked up.] Lily’s breasts have cancer.”
And then there were two. I’ve ruled out three, but Cornell and Rutgers and a knot in my stomach remain. It’s like a love triangle. (That paints a more flattering than accurate portrait. One party is ahh a little more Into Me than the other. But still.)
This part gives me the feeling I get from from driving on narrow roads (at night, for whatever reason) and standing on bridges and roofs. I appreciate the degree of control I enjoy, because obviously the alternative would be worse. And yet… I don’t entirely trust myself with this level of responsibility—even when it’s over my own life. No, I have no intention of swerving into oncoming traffic, but I’m like alienated from my own brain enough that it freaks me out to have situations hinge on my choice.
Oof. Time for bed, Lily.
Seeing a prostitute is an absolute deal breaker. A respect annihilator. Disgusting. Contemptible. Pathetic. How you could not feel utter scorn for your boyfriend after this revelation is incomprehensible to me. He was “lonely”? And having sex with a woman who was not attracted to him, who did not enjoy herself, who faked everything, didn’t make his loneliness a thousand times worse? Wasn’t totally humiliating? This is the narcissism of a sociopath or a toddler. I don’t waste compassion on men this rich in self-pity. Be honest, letter writer #5; since you found this out his touch makes your skin crawl. GTFO. DTMFA.
n. the exhilarating dread of finally pursuing a lifelong dream, which requires you to put your true abilities out there to be tested on the open savannah, no longer protected inside the terrarium of hopes and delusions that you created in kindergarten and kept sealed as long as you could, only to break in case of emergency.