Explanation over.

Bake time.

Settling in for the evening. Tank top, tea, and green jolly rancher. Check. 

The drizzle weather is mellowing my high.

Hearing my goddamn slut roommate screaming "oh! god! yeaaaaah!" because she can’t remember the name of the guy she brought home. Killing my high.

Fuck it. As long as Daddy keeps giving her rent money, I don’t care if she fucks Mr. Roger’s neighborhood.

(Secret #1: Rich daddy eye fucked me while moving her in two months ago. A few weeks ago, he found his withering balls and made some pathetic sexual reference while handing me the rent check, and asked that I call him Bill. And the cycle of aging, unhappily married men flocking in my direction continues.)

I’m on OpenDiary because my therapist suggested it. I’m seeing my therapist because Human Resources suggested it.

Minor altercation at my work.

My life is full of minor altercations.

I thought expressing my "deep dark secrets and feelings" were to happen in her plush, overly furnished office. Seeing as how she’s the biggest twat with a Ph.D, she’s decided to delegate her overpriced duty to an online website.

However, let’s be real. I’d much rather abuse my keyboard than "open up" to Dr. Twat.

Our first session:

Dr. Ivonne: So glad you found the place, Harlow. I’m Dr. Ivonne M******. Let’s jump right in. Tell me a little bit about yourself, and why you are here.
My thoughts: Ivonne? Your name is Ivonne? Are you fucking shitting me? Ivonna jump into a pool full of acid before I tell you about myself, you pretentious fuck.)
My response: Seriously?
Dr. Ivonne: Is there something wrong?
Me: No. People come to therapy when everything is rainbows and tits, right?
Blank stare.
Me: Great. I came to the right place then.
Dr. Ivonne: Sarcasm is a shield, Harlow. I can’t help you if you don’t leave your shields at the door.

This is the part where she suggests starting an online diary. It’s suppose to help reflect on therapy, memories, and feelings. Apparently, opening up to a virtual world is suppose to somehow break my defensive stance with her.

You may ask yourself…if you don’t care about therapy, why did you take her advice?

I don’t need reflection. One phone call from my mother reminds me of why I left when I was 16 and never looked back.

I’m doing this because it gives my twitching hands a release.

Bake time over.

It’s time to physically witness my roommate’s latest fake orgasm’s Walk of Shame.