Anonymity, A Poison Pen, A Heart-Shaped Diary With A Lock

I remember waking up crying, too. Well, not even really waking up, you know, that purposeful insentience, it was a defense mechanism, but not an actual one or a helpful one, like run, bitch, run! would've been, but it was all I could come up with at the time, and given the circumstances, you've gotta believe that it was like being blindfolded in hell and fumbling for the exit. Begging for mercy at the start, but later reduced to only begging for it not happen in front of the girl. Do you understand what I am saying? I'm sure you don't like to think about these things, but they shaped me, irrevocably, and you can't be mad at me for delusional sequels, crying when my mind puts two and two together to get five, because it is as involuntary as a seasonally-induced sneeze or a nerve-induced tic. More like a tic. But short story long, it is all in the past; post-trauma, if you require a doctor's note to excuse me. But it is a very real possibility that I may never not flinch.

I am not sure what is appropriate anymore but these words are just an exercise in compliance, anyway, vis-a-vis me to my inner tourette's, so it might as well be you to whom I defer: strike all paragraphs concerning sex, love, hate, fear, insecurity, and hope.