Priya's Treatise on Unpopular Daughters

I just read this article about a woman who was part of the first generation of women to receive birth control - who didn't have to necessarily equate sex with pregnancy and children. She wants to know what it is about mothers of her generation that lets their daughters dress "like prostitutes" in this age of hypersexuality. Moses closes concludes, "We wouldn't dream of dropping our daughters off at college and saying: 'Study hard and floss every night, honey—and for heaven's sake, get laid!' But that's essentially what we're saying by allowing them to dress the way they do." Her thesis is that every girl wants to be popular, and every mother wants to help her daughter be part of that crowd. I have reservations.

First of all, there is no such thing as "this age of hypersexuality" - they're ALL "this age of hypersexuality" if you think about it.

Now. My mom - and all my friends' moms - were part of that generation, too, and none of us dressed like prostitutes. Ever. Not at prom, not at house parties. Never! I know. Maybe it was because we weren't allowed to, but I never had the That's Too Revealing conversation with my parents. I don't know if I was just incredibly lucky, but nobody ever threw a Slurpie in my face; I wasn't unpopular, I was just not popular. It's an important distinction. I never really felt talked down to or excluded by the popular kids, because I had a tight-knit group who always had my back. We had each other, and, looking back on that time in my life, I realize that I regularly felt the sensation of being very popular (within our sphere of influence). So obviously our mothers - consciously or not - did help us become popular, and not the kind that sends naked texts. This is how my parents did it:

My parents always stressed that the special thing about me was my intelligence, my humor, my personality in general. Sure, they told me I was pretty (WHAT PARENT DOESN'T TELL THEIR KID THIS) but it was not the kind of "pretty" that high school dudes are into. Maybe that's the difference between Moses' daughter and me: I wasn't hot! OF COURSE I fostered the occasional crush, lust, whatever, but nothing ever came of it. Like, nothing. Okay - I had my first kiss in high school and THAT'S IT. And I would be lying if I wrote that I felt like my inexperience at that point was a bad thing. To this day I'm REALLY happy that I didn't sleep around in high school, but mainly because (from what I understand), high school guys are generally fumbling sexual morons, not because I feel like I'd be "worth" less or traumatized if I had.

Also, my parents told me OVER AND OVER again that the popular kids had reached their peak by the time they were 17. This was not at all true in most cases, since I went to an affluent private school where lots of the popular kids grew up to get degrees in Finance (*cough*) but in at least one case it was SO TRUE and oh my god that case still shakes me to my bones with its trueness. Yeeeesh.

Things that my parents had no effect on but still helped a lot:
- I had the aforementioned Best Besties who had the same (alright, somewhat geeky) interests as I did and who never made me do anything I didn't want to do.

I think about this from time to time: How, as a FEMINIST!!!!!, I might raise my own Hypothetical Daughter. This is what I've managed to narrow it down to:

1) Do not be squeamish about sex talk, boy talk, drug/booze talk, girl talk, or any other kind of talk. Treat Hypothetical Daughter like you'd treat your high-school self: with dignity, respect, and a dash of humor. Make it clear that HD can ask you, tell you, ANYTHING and you will not flip out (unless a crime has been committed or someone's safety is otherwise at risk - be a responsible adult, parents!), and then, when she does come to you with something legit fucked up, FOLLOW THROUGH by giving her the benefit of a level-headed response from an adult with only her best interests in (realistic) mind! Give good, solid advice - use examples, illustrate with your own experience, extrapolate, but BE HONEST - and she will keep you in the loop. The important part, as always, is: FOLLOW THROUGH!!!!

2) Make HD aware of her Self as a Person. A strong sense of Self, and the rights that Self affords her, makes it easier to determine exactly what that Self is not okay with doing, and why that boundary has been drawn. I always knew that I had the RIGHT! to say No to something I didn't want to do, and people just had to respect it or I wouldn't be their friend anymore. Maybe I've just always been a super-opinionated shitheel, but that position has afforded me the best friends I could ever have asked for (love you guyyyzzzz), because toxic frenemies were not tolerated, and all that remained were genuinely supportive, loving GALS from the planet OhMyGod HighFive.

Also: Dressing provocatively doesn't necessarily mean that you're going to DO IT when you're 13. Your daughter could be Supes Hot but if she has a personally compelling reason to avoid doing Bad, Peer Pressure-y Stuff, she just...won't do it. No Commandments Necessary.

And stop saying that your daughter's peers look "like prostitutes". You clearly have no idea what real prostitutes look like (Hint: Not your 13 year old daughter at a Bar Mitzvah), so that comparison is hilarious for your daughter to hear, while simultaneously shaming your daughter for having done something she didn't...actually...do.

ALSO: WHAT IS WRONG WITH GETTING LAID IN COLLEGE. I mean, Freshmen: USE PROTECTION FOR EVERYONE'S SAKE, AND GET TESTED IF YOU DO IT A BUNCH WITH PEOPLE YOU DON'T KNOW AS WELL AS YOU MAYBE SHOULD (which is a lecture for another day), but if you have instilled in your daughter the sense that she knows exactly what her limits are, and why those are her limits, what she does in college will not traumatize her forever. It won't traumatize her at all!

Go forth and prosper! Oh - good luck with your sons, by the way. I don't know what the fuck to do about them.

OKAY! SO!

So it's been a while. Because I broke my laptop (it overheated lots of times in a row, go figure) and somehow typing these posts on my parents' desktop PC just didn't feel right. The good news is I got a new laptop.

The bad news is I AM STILL JUST AS MIND-NUMBING AS EVER!

Yesterday I started my senior year of college. All summer I felt pretty calm about it, but the more I think about how close I am to the finish line, the more excited I get. I'm a geek. This semester I'm taking Dante (with a fave professor), Abnormal Psychology (which I already know will be hilarious - Excuse me, Professor? When are we going to learn how to diagnose Autism? Just kidding, all my friends are case studies so I'm pretty much an expert, no big deal), Irish Literature (I have to take an English elective and my other favourite prof is teaching this one, so...hell yeah), and some bullshit for my Finance minor. UGH. Next semester promises to be even more fun - this is my last Finance requirement, so basically it's going to be my thesis, Spanish II (after taking it for 7 years in middle school, high school, and my first college), and two other electives.

Being a senior is pretty much going to rule, except for the small, nagging fact that I'm all slated to take the GMAT this semester. So that means studying, prep courses, Pepto Bismol, and lots and lots of questioning my chosen path in life.

So what did you miss while I was a Luddite? Not much, since I was on Twitter like crazy, but:

This summer was pretty much one of the most darkly, emotionally turbulent periods of my life, for reasons I can't/won't go into here, but I have to say that I feel I've come out of the forest now. I have a great boyfriend who is just what I need and pretty much always what I want. My parents and I seem to have quietly reached a shared mantra ("Stay Calm"). My best friends are all happy - even Marion! I got an awesome haircut a couple days ago that looks just as good messy as it does all done up. Oh, and...I turned 24 in July, so stay tuned for when my elderly old bones crumble into dust and blow away in the wind. I don't think you'll wait long - we are, after all, in the throes of hurricane season.

The most pervasive feeling I have tonight, though, is that of optimism. I feel as though I am on the brink of a psychological breakthrough, something that will really, truly make me feel Grown Up, or at least...less of a constant, tossing mess. I wonder what it will be.

Well, THAT went well.

This weekend was a rager, folks. In so many ways. I am, however, glad it was so, more than glad - it's a nice momentum to have when I'm perched on the edge of YET ANOTHER semester of "no, I'm not doing anything new, just...class" (significant eye roll meant to convey: "SCHOOL IS BORING").

Okay, off to shower, primp, and mingle with family. Wish me luck.

I know, I KNOW OKAY

Yes, that is the music video for Tik ToK. The official spelling of this song's title is enough to give me the howling phantods, but just watch the first 30 seconds of it: the part where she goes downstairs and her parents are like SUPES SHOCKED that she looks so disheveled is pretty much what this month away from school has been like for me. I assume the thought process with my actual parents goes something like, "okay, Priya is going through a period of personal difficulty...we'll just leave her alone for now." Until I start cutting myself. HAHA Kidding I would never do that Or would I? No I wouldn't, I'm really bad at causing myself physical pain BUT EMOTIONAL PAIN IS NO PROBLEM is there a word for cutting your own soul? Not that I need that word I'm just wondering. Because I like words, you know. Because Literature Majors. Because books. Because yeah.

And that was my impression of Kristen Wiig's "Just Kidding!" character from SNL. Had you worried there for a sec, didn't I? Well, don't freak, guys, my MULTIPLE PERSONALITIES are just a myth. Anyway, here's the video.

Mr. T Has a Message for YOU Today!

My absolute favourite part of this video - bar none - is the very end. Be somebody!

Alright, April...

I haven't been writing much because I'm just treading water these days. Last semester felt more like an active pursuit, I guess. I just had more energy. Now I'm merely stalling as I count down to the weekend, over and over and over again. This doesn't bode well for my Accounting grade, but...it's kind of hard to care sometimes. I hate that that's the case. This Wednesday I'm going to see Ratatat at the Meridian, and then on Saturday I'm going to see Morrissey at Jones Hall. I'm getting geared up about that, and I know I'm going to goldbrick through another week by saying "It's Monday! I'll just work after the Ratatat show!" and then being too excited to do anything until Sunday because MORRISSEY! UGHHH.

My parents are on my back about helping them choose somewhere to go on vacation this summer(they're thinking Prague or Berlin or something), but I don't want to go anywhere. First world problems, I know, but I want to stay at home and concentrate on writing something of worth, finally. I realize now that I'm not a genius who can just sit down and create accidentally. I'm going to have to be one of those hacks that actually schedules out a time frame to write two pages of material. I finally feel motivated to do that, though, since an associate of mine at St. Thomas read one of my papers and asked me to write a piece for some school magazine, and said that if I was interested she'd see that I was nominated for a position on the board for next year. Progress!

This is why I haven't been posting. I feel too listless to get anything across without using the same five adjectives. Awesome. Lame. Ugh. Fuck. Morrissey. I'll be back after the shows, when I can predict that I'll be slightly more jazzed on existence than I am right now.

I hope that by posting this, I'm enacting a Big Jinx

mackin: and My mom got to meet david hyde peirce
mackin: she's a big frasier fan

PortablePriya: FRASIER!
PortablePriya: i like frasier, too

mackin: I bought her a season of it for christmas one year
mackin: she's not good with tv on DVD apparently
mackin: i don't think she ever watched them

PortablePriya: hahahaha!
PortablePriya: parents somehow don't get the point of that

mackin: destroyed my sad attempt at years of easy gifts

PortablePriya: hahaha

mackin: probably a good thing

PortablePriya: yeah really...i mean, you'd eventually run out

mackin: no its freakin shallow

PortablePriya: there's frasier, mad about you, and, like, this old house

mackin: its my mom for crying out loud

PortablePriya: and then you'd be out

mackin: yeah but my parents watch this old house on saturdays

PortablePriya: haha true, i guess i don't really know what that's like since i don't have a mom
PortablePriya: oh my god i don't know why i said that
PortablePriya: i have a mom

mackin: ????????????????????????????

PortablePriya: i meant to say that we don't really celebrate christmas

mackin: haha

PortablePriya: oh my god

mackin: that was horrible by the way

PortablePriya: i know

mackin: I was like shit
mackin: good thing i didn't make a your mom joke

PortablePriya: i kind of toyed with doing that, and instead of deleting it i SENT IT

Lazy Ass Blogger

I know, I know. I had a long day, and I'm still working on an accounting quiz that's due tomorrow. Tomorrow (later today?) I will tell you all about my Austin weekend. In mad details, with videos and everything. In the meantime:

Caroline: "crisp billz, earned"

PortablePriya: HAHA

Caroline: that's T-Pain's account

PortablePriya: HAAHHA

Caroline: "Got Money"
Caroline: that's Lil Wayne's
Caroline: or T-Pain's really, I forgot they collaborated. haha

PortablePriya: i can't keep those two straight
PortablePriya: they both have those braid/dread things and crazy grillz

Caroline: dude I WORSHIP Lil Wayne, how dare you mix them up!

PortablePriya: you know who else rocks out to lil wayne madcore?

Caroline: whoo?
Caroline: Kyle?

PortablePriya: MY DADCORE

Caroline: NO WAY

PortablePriya: WAY
PortablePriya: let me tell you a story
PortablePriya: i was at the galleria with my dad...months ago
PortablePriya: and he had to run in and get a suit that had been tailored
PortablePriya: so i stayed in the car, in the driver's seat, in case they wanted me to stop idling by the curb
PortablePriya: so i was just sitting there, and my dad's iphone was plugged in and we were listening to his itunes
PortablePriya: and so far it was all like, simon and garfunkel and fleetwood mac or whatever old people like
PortablePriya: and then suddenly GUNSHOTS
PortablePriya: DOGS BARKING
PortablePriya: and i'm like OH MY GOD IM SO SCARED RIGHT NOW!!
PortablePriya: and then FUCK YOU BITCH IMMA COME FOR YOUR ASS AND STRAIGHT UP MURDER YOUR FACE
PortablePriya: and i'm like AHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Caroline: HAHAHAHAHA

PortablePriya: and then MORE GUNSHOTS
PortablePriya: and i'm like OMG OMG OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
PortablePriya: and then my dad came and i was like "what the fuck was that"
PortablePriya: and he was like, "it was lil wayne! lil wayne rules!"
PortablePriya: and i was like, "lil wayne owes me new underpants."
PortablePriya: and he was like, "he's the voice of the streets!"

Caroline: omg the VOICE OF THE STREETS
Caroline: I think your dad is the coolest

PortablePriya: my dad said that if lil wayne couldn't make a living in rap he'd be dead

Caroline: hahaha yes.

PortablePriya: he said that he has literally no marketable skills other than being a rap artist guy

Motif

God. My parents are turning into my grandparents. It's not even funny. The other day the three of us were watching The Office and I said something about one of the older characters being "like, a hundred years old," when he was really only about 50. My mom looked over at me and jokingly said, "so your parents are a hundred years old?" And I said, "YEAH." My dad piped in and said, "we're 100 when you put our ages together." Mom laughed and said, "...Oh my god. We are. We're a hundred." It was hilarious how disturbing this news was to her.

Then, after we finished the episode, they started talking about how they had a picture of me at like 3 months old, sitting on a table during our first Diwali. They were reminiscing about how cute I was (I will concur with them on this point: I was a cute baby. WAY cuter than my brother ever was). And then my dad broke out the photo album and sat down next to me, and my mom sat on my other side, and we looked at naked baby pictures of me for half an hour.

So my question is: What the hell?

I am a participant in NaBloPoMo 2008. Post every day in November. That's all you have to do.

This is turning out to be Media Month

I got this high-five montage from Mighty Girl (you can find the link to her site under Favourite Blogs, on the left). As a lover of high fives, montages, and videos you made at home that feature your parents being good sports even though they clearly don't understand why you think this is a worthwhile pursuit, I enjoyed this video very much. I think you will agree.

Tales of Mere Existence

Marion exposed me to this YouTube guy who posts little videos of banal experiences of his life, illustrated on paper bags (or something). They're really funny and sometimes poignant. This one really struck a chord:



People who have met my mom will know that another of her favourite things to do is Convince You To Eat.

Mom: "Are you kids hungry?"

Priya: "No thanks, Mom! We ate."

Mom: "We have some chicken here, I just grilled it. It's delicious. It's really very moist. It's tender, too. I used Italian herbs."

Priya: "Really, thanks. But I think we're good. We literally just drove over here from dinner."

Mom: "Let your friends talk. Are you girls hungry?"

Marion: "Uh...no, but thanks very much, we're really full. We might eat something later."

Mom: "Okay, we have this chicken, we have some steak in the fridge from last night, we have pierogies, we have roti, I could make you girls some quesadillas, we have ribs. Are you thirsty?"

Lauren: "No, thank you." *holds up bottle of water*

Mom: "Well if you get thirsty later we have Fiji water, Ozarka water, we have these little water pods, we have Coke, we have diet Coke, we have diet Coke without caffine, we have Sprite, we have diet Sprite, we have Mountain Dew, we have coffee, tea, do you take sugar in your coffee? How about milk? We have 2%, whole milk, and skim milk."

Priya (starting to feel queasy): "Mom. We're good."

Mom (really tense): "WELL MAYBE YOUR FRIENDS WOULD LIKE SOMETHING."

Marion (intimidated): "we're okay!"

Lauren (very intimidated): "Thank you very much!"

Priya (on the verge of tears): "We're not hungry!"

Mom: "We have some bananas, watermelon, grapes, peaches, pears, plums, tomatoes - do you like tomatoes with salt?"

Story of My Life

This is not an original thought, but I need to just smile and nod when other people talk, and do whatever I want to do anyway. It's worked out for me thus far, and I have no reason to believe that it will stop working...ever.

Blitz

For the millionth time in my life, my parents have taken something normal and made it weird. What was supposed to be a road trip with my friend turned into a plane trip alone.

I hate planes.

Move Overprotection

I'm about one argument, one misunderstanding, and one "you're being ridiculous" away from just tying both my parents together and tossing them in the bayou.

Here we go.

I just watched this Pot Psychology column and a keychain canister of pepper spray was mentioned. And I was like, "MAN! I have been meaning to get one of those forever." And then I searched for some on the internet but realized that I probably shouldn't buy weapons for myself because I get the feeling that in my case, honking profusely as a venting device for my road rage for even minor offenses (which is something I already do) would just be a gateway drug to just casually macing people who irritate me. And that's crossing the line between noise pollution and, you know, assault.
But I do want a little canister of pepper spray to go on my keychain! I know a lot of people who could use a macing.

SEE? This is the kind of thinking I was just talking about.

Separate but related issue: Buying pepper spray on the internet is hilarious, even if you only skim the surface of google results:



There's mace in a pink can, mace that looks like a pen, mace that looks like lipstick, mace that's available in a ONE POUND CAN - that's ONE POUND OF MACE, mace that's a gel that sticks to your attacker's face, mace that looks like a pager (no shit, if I saw someone carrying a pager these days I would assume it wasn't actually something else pretending to be a pager), mace that clips to your car visor, and mace that comes in a holster. In short, AMF, YO YO!

"AMF YO YO" is a phrase my parents introduced me to over our vacation in Switzerland. For those of you who were not born a hundred years ago, it's short for "Adios, Mother Fucker! You On Yo Own." Of course, my dad said it stood for "Adios MF" which fooled no one.

Shopping Memo

Priya: "Dad, did you get the memo that we're going shopping for Switzerland tomorrow at noon?"

Dad: "Uh...I should be home by then, yeah."

Priya: "Where are you going?"

Dad: "I have to work."

Priya: "Oh, work. Work is for - "

Dad: *warning glance*

Priya: "Work is for people who have jobs."

Social Machinations

I love Chuck Klosterman. Really. He's so adept at the one-liner last word that it drives me crazy. HOW DID YOU DO THAT? I just read an article that he wrote for ESPN (oh, believe me, my computer is as shocked as you are. It had a bunch of suggestions when I typed in E...S... but when I typed P it just sat back and was like, "I dunno where you're going with this - you want to go to ESPN.com? Really? Sure, why not.") about how Kobe Bryant and Shaq hate each other. And then somehow he made it about love. I don't know. Most of the time I don't have a clue what Klosterman's talking about anyway (hint: most of the time it's how Stryper's career arc is still affecting the American Presidency) but that's especially true here.

I was just really tempted to write that Klosterman is the King of Closers but that's too alliterative. True, but too alliterative. God, that last sentence sounds too alliterative. Alliterative! ALLITERATIVE. I now have sincere doubts that 'alliterative' is a word. Fuck.

My parents and I had been planning to go to Turkey later this summer. I was kind of looking forward to it, because, you know, fancy...but at the same time, clean, modern and cosmopolitan is really more my style. I'm really looking forward to all the chocolates and sweaters. I predict that it will all be a very good look for me. Unfortunately, I don't know German or French or...Swiss...but they know English so I'm confident that I won't have to stumble around muttering things like, "Gutentaag, meine Kinder!", "Wo ist das Badezimmer?" and "Scheiße". A girl can only greet children, use the bathroom, and offend strangers so many times in one day, you know.

It's 6AM. I can't sleep; I keep waking up in a cold sweat from dreams that are about Lauren's wedding. Yesterday I had a dream that she had forgotten her something old/new/borrowed/blue and I had to get something from each category for her to carry with her. It sounds stupid now, but I woke up this morning feeling horrible. I also have been suffering minor panic attacks when I realize that I have no idea what's going on with the guestbook, the drinks, who's going to wrangle the groomsmen (they always need wrangling)...Note to friends: putting me in charge of anything close to major (like I was this time with the bachelorette party) is a horrible idea, because I can't just do my job and be satisfied that if I can help someone will let me know. Once I enter "helpful" mode I can't seem to extricate myself and end up trying to organize everything within my sphere of influence. This is a lot like when I enter "tour guide" mode, which happens when someone asks me to help them out when they're visiting my city and I turn into their overbearing-but-means-well mother, under the logic that they must feel horribly lost with not knowing how things are done here. The worst thing is that I can see myself turning into these characters but am powerless to stop the transformation. Strangely enough, this thing about making myself into someone perfectly capable's mom is the one thing that I find hilarious about failing miserably at not turning into my own mom.
Anyway, none of these freakouts are based in any mystery for me. I'm sure it has something to do with the concrete fact (as opposed to the whimy of my obvious disorders) that until very recently, I was panicking about where Kyle would sleep this weekend (he's visiting for the wedding). For two months I tried desperately to get some information from various male friends and groomsmen about whether they'd be attending and if so, would they mind sharing a room with Kyle? Radio silence until yesterday, but by then I had already booked a room for him at the Magnolia and solved my problem. Now two friends have come forward with offers of generosity, which opens a can of worms like: if Kyle crashes with a friend for just one night and stays at the hotel for one night, that would free up a bunch of finances for us to do cool stuff while he's in town. On the other hand, we're going to be busy enough running around for the wedding without needing to find something cool to do, and he's only here for two days, really. Also, If Kyle crashes with a friend on the first night, we'll need to check him into the hotel on Saturday morning and we have other stuff to do that day that kind of takes precedence. And I'm already used to the idea of having some privacy this weekend and I think paying for the hotel room would be worth it. King sized bed, dude! But I don't know. I need to figure this out soon, since the deadline for cancelling or changing the reservation is at 4pm tomorrow, and I will undoubtedly forget to do anything about it, since I do all my strategizing and thinking at night...which is not at all evidenced by this post.

Welcome to My Mind

I just came home from dinner with Lauren, and walked into the study to see my dad lounging on the couch. I showed him that I had purchased some milk, and he said that as long as I was on my way into the kitchen, could I put away his empty bowl? I said sure, and asked what he had eaten.

"Chikpeas," he said.

"...and?"

"That's it."

"That's depressing."

"Why? I like chickpeas."

"You could have had the chicken breast that was in the fridge."

As I left the room, I thought that, considering how much of a prude I am, I'm comfortable enough saying the word "breast" to my dad. Well, I thought, It's not like I said 'chicken tits to him."

And then I laughed my ass off. Chicken tits.

I'm Seven Years Old Again.

Almost everyone has gotten gum in their hair at one point or another. I made a very vulgar typo in that last sentence. I won't tell you what it was, but it changed the tone of this entry pretty significantly.

ANYWAY. For most people, that experience comes pretty early in life, before we realize what a fucking pain in the ass it is to get it out. Or it comes at the hand of some asshole who thought it would be funny to make your mom huddle over your head for seven hours with a chunk of ice, freezing the gum out sliver by sliver.

I had that experience. I was about six or seven, and I remember it clearly. I was playing with a friend, and to goof off, I spit my gum at her. I missed on purpose, but some saliva landed on her. She spit back, and her gum landed right in my hair. I couldn't type at the time, and the internet hadn't yet been invented, but even then I was like OMG DUDE WTF WAS THAT?!
And then my mom had to huddle over my head for seven hours with a chunk of ice, freezing the gum out sliver by sliver. It was horrible for me because I was a twitchy little kid and I had to sit still that entire time, or risk yanking out a big chunk of hair. And if I had one quality in greater degree than twitchiness, it was tender-headed-ness.

Fast forward 15 years (holy shit) to today, and just now, I bent over the trash can to spit out my gum, and my hair (which is getting pretty long these days) hung around my face. Just as I was about to spit the gum out, the hair tickled my face and I tried to swoosh the hair away from my face and spit at the same time. And you know the rest.
Thank god I already have a bunch of layers cut into this style, 'cause I just cut it straight out. With a pair of sewing scissors. I ain't got no seven hour ice cubes.

Open Letter to My Parents RE: Childhood Favors

Dear Mom and Dad,

You've perpetrated many crimes against my sanity in the last 22 years...from asking my friends to rat me out to you about not studying for some test or another, to telling my boyfriend you were going to call the police on him to make him stay away, to tearing up 6 years of journals before my eyes, you've done so much that I'm still struggling to recover from.

But you never gave me a gay nickname like Angel Bunny.

Thank you so fucking much,
-Priya