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Sat, Jun. 30th, 2012 | 12:40 am  slavezombie


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slavezombie
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I get home anxious to get some reading done, and it's like my brain isn't in my head. I'm like, get it out of your head. But I can't. All these years I thought Ana Garcia was her, but I could clearly see tonight that that wasn't so; the girl at the party was Ananbcla, like the big thug she brought with her was her body guard. Then I'm recalling the mental image from '05, trying to compare that with the lady I saw tonight. That seemed plausible, but the issue here is that I can't stop thinking of this.

Not too much was exchanged in conversation. You have to figure that something like that would the result of her husband sitting next to her, but I like to think that if she really had meant it when she said to me, a gazillion years ago, that she loved me more than I loved her, then she's probably steaming mad that my life turned out so fucked up. Or maybe just mad that she ended up marrying who she married, whereas she would've preferred that I behaved 30 years ago.


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