9.24.2009 I feel guilty, here in the pit of my stomach. As if it were a greasy fucking hairball; I scratch at my swollen belly to force it out. I feel guilty for that shitty food I ate, for that phone call I just had, of course, for the heartless things I said and to whom I said them. I feel the thumb of a stranger traveling into my panties and pressure on that greasy hairball, it makes me nervous. You know, only at night do I indulge in these 'unhealthy allowances'; during the day I keep myself busy by flipping through pictures of who I'm supposed to. Also, I feel guilty about never fucking writing, about spending too much money, or not doing the dishes. See, you, why aren't I feeling all that pressure when I'm touching the wrong legs, or stealing from the Goodwill? Why not when I cut people off on the freeway (or anywhere else for that matter)? What the fuck is the deal here? And then I want him... The green eyes...the green eyes... the fucking green eyes that see straight into my guilty soul, that make me coil and recoil. And even writing won't save my soul. I feel guilt like an anvil, restless legs and a pair of horny hands. AND I DID IT ANYWAY.
