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Either way, not even a symbolic ten-inch penis can change my mind.
“She’s knocking on social security’s door, she’s so old. Get her the damn tea before she expires and we’re debatin’ between a coffin or cremation.”
The anxiety has been with me for as long as I can remember, crawling into my heart when my emotions threaten to get the best of me. But Jackson always knew, somehow intrinsically, how to bring me back from that panicked rush that seeps into my bones and lingers.
“Do not feel guilty for putting up boundaries and doing what’s best for you.”
To the random onlooker, I don’t look ill. I don’t have any bones bursting through the skin or a lopsided gait thanks to a limp. I look just fine. If only my brain would get on the same playing field.
