I don't know what's wrong with me. I mean, I do--but that's OK.

That last post was nearly hysterical. This one will be as well, I'm afraid.

I spoke to Fitz about an hour ago and I just about lost it. Where was TRUE, anyway? No posts, and of course, no phone calls. Was she out there alone, no money, wandering the streets, deep in Mexico? Wearing a cowboy hat?

He came by and we stood out on the sidewalk. The full moon shone down upon us like movieset lights, the street glistened with rain. I was upset by Fitz's presense--I would never understand his sense of loyalty. All his fucking talk about how what I really want is a master, that whole Lacan bag that he laid on me after I admitted that I wanted to fuck my boss, who happens to be male. So what if M.'s name is the same as my fathers'? Maybe I'm just that kind of girl, just that kind of dyke.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that what the fuck, I want to get fucked.

Fitz was getting in the way of me and my fantasies. I wanted to be alone. I closed my eyes and had a waking dream, in which I turned and said, "If I kill him now, well who's going to miss him?"

Later, safe inside and by myself, I can relax--maybe get some work done. Sometimes it's not worth it to go out, it's too much work. It's easier to just stay home and play with myself, in front of the TV.

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