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December 26, 2010
Your hand is warm on my knee, and although--or maybe because--the touch isn't sexual, I like it there. I'm sorry I've been mad at you. Somehow, in my twisted little mind, everything got confused. Everything was threatening and frightening and terrible. Lord knows I'm crazy enough.

I will be mad at you again. Possibly tonight. Probably tomorrow. I will pout and cry and pick fights. Sorry. I will blame you for things that aren't your fault. Sorry. I will cruelly tear at your faults. Sorry.

I will love you until the end of my days. Sorry.