from the diary of a paranoid little puppy…
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I wonder what kind of sicko I must be that, now that I’m letting down the hems of my thoughts, every male thinks I secretly want him, and every woman thinks I secretly want her boyfriend, husband, father, grandfather…
What a painful way to walk down a street, feeling half the population hate your guts, while the other half avoids you or, worse, clings to you and watches you too closely. Everyone staring like I’m some kind of scandal or sitcom wearing nothing but underwear in midwinter. I don’t want the reputation my mother wishes for me, as an ice cube who can’t speak or smile in public; but I don’t want a reputation as a case, either!
