My husband is out tonight, at a bar in a trendy downtown area, possibly trying to get laid.
Lol, that’s what I get, right?
Hopefully he has better luck than the last time I tried to have any fun with someone I actually liked.
Again, that’s what I get, right?
I have to go to bed soon, the only booze in the house is wine I bought for scampi.
There’s a very fuckable therapist at the behavioral clinic I go to. I’m glad I didn’t get him. I’d never open up. I get embarrassed with my guy when I start crying, because lately it only comes up over one thing.
Just the constant crushing pervading loneliness of my life, the deep terror I feel over it getting any worse, and the unstoppable rage that’s sure to follow.
Sounds about right. Situation normal, as my mom would say. My therapist isn’t impressed with her. He thinks most moms wouldn’t let their husband keep them from their daughter. He’s right.
It’s like I was given enough anesthesia to immobilize me, but I feel everything.
I have feelings.
Someone treat me