None of Josie's online images look like the woman I've met in her various incarnations, but this image of her is the most unflattering ugly woman gone dyke lotus I could find. This is the mother earth udder who burned me over a trade journalist widower who was such a charming bigot. I am not often kind to myself, but I am more attractive than Josie, and I will not be charged under federal hate crime statues in the event of her death. I'd like to kill her, in my idiomatic class conscious roots, but one lesbian knife in the back isn't worth a contract hit. Nor was Cecil the love of my life. I joined his Catholic group and emailed him later with the thought that I had a yeast infection.
Got his attention, exchange of pictures, numbers. Pragmatic suburbanites to whom I complained about lesbian high crimes said I should have kept the man off my group. Housewives aren't always lacking in wisdom. What Josie disrupted beneath my feet was the shared interests Cecil and I could discuss, that I am starved for, and don't have the courage to keep getting knocked down online in searching for it.
I cannot talk to Frank, but Cecil read me; he was astute, a romantic Argentine who overcame his looks. Josie took this from me, just blew it away, and my hatred, therefore, toward LGBT norms doesn't come unsanctioned. I'm lonely. Burned to the tenth power, and now I'm 52. I don't have many concealed cards left to turn, and when I told Cecil I'd take the train to DC so he could see I was telling the truth, I received the standard internet alarm: he'd call the authorities. I don't want another chance specifically with him. Two caustic tongues in the same room doesn't regenerate moisture, but this is where progressive tolerances have left me, rolling from Jew bitch to dyke, while everyone has a piece in the Mexican's ass.
Ambulatory men have done bad things to me, but decent ones exist. The husband's I stole taught me that. I've always wanted one for myself; my life will be over soon.
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