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well, my acid tears seem to have stopped. good. i'm not as puffy as yesterday.

i waited for the streetcar for about 20 minutes. i realized that i forgot to bring my 6-7-8-whatever library books which were due two days ago. several books + 50 cents a day = $78 BILLION dollar fines. i thought about taking a taxi to fred's, but i'm trying to be really stingy with my money so i can lavish myself with BIRTHDAY GOODIES. oh yeah, maybe get socks a little something too (we have the same birthday. THIS SUCKS! coincidentally, my brother and HIS girlfriend have the same birthday. we are a lazy family indeed.)

the streetcar finally came. it was quite crowded, and a lot of people inadvertedly touched my butt as they passed, and i thought about how butt-touching is so un-erotic. to me, at least.

i ran to get the streetcar going north, but OF COURSE it left without me. i looked down the road to see no little red blob coming my way for another, oh, twenty minutes. i decided to make a run for it.

i ran in short, painful bursts, stopping to sweat a little and cringe at the searing pain in my dry throat. then i would run some more. i almost started to cry as i thought about the effort i was making for an appointment that fred had called "short" while making it, and the unsatisfying sessions as of late. but i kept walking, running, gasping, cringing instead. cringeing? stupid word.

when i did arrive, he was wearing his sally jesse glasses and wanted to talk about sex. ok. i can do that. i'm good at that.

i used to be very bad at it. in fact, my psychology teacher once exclaimed "FUCK! K, you have a phobia!" as i curled up in an anxious fetal position while talking about sex. while going through my so-called "sexual" history (history of making out with 33-year olds for one drunken evening after another) i thought how much more fun this diary would be if i had started it then. i was going on this strange trampy journey, and the best version of a diary of it all would have to be my emails to e., my old english teacher. no, i did not ever make out with her. yes, that would be a cool entry, but alas, it never happened.

i would write e. emails about women i met, women who wanted me, women who i made out with, women who were far too old for me "heh heh heh", etc. she would share reserved caution, not wanting to be judgmental or conventional, but still wanting to instill the basic message that she cared about my pseudo-slutiness.

the snail-like pace of my sexual development was, according to fred, "intuitively brilliant," with enough reserve and enough experimentation to pull me through the confusion and ambivalence to a sensible conclusion - i need a slowly built-up, long-term attachment to someone before i can have sex with them, which is essentially all about making myself vulnerable. ta-da. i guess those limits i imposed on my slutiness were healthy, after all, when i thought they were just strange and prudish. i thought that i was abnormal, and repressed, and damaged somehow, but i turned out ok.

so when i'm in that long-term, trusting relationship?

hello nympho.