I’m angry at her for not believing in me enough to let me talk to her friends. Assuming the worst. I’m also angry at myself for overreacting. She clearly wanted to prepare her friends instead of having me burst in with no notice. But I had to be an asshole about it. And when I’m really and truly honest with myself, I know that I’m angry because she has a lot of good points about the book. Maybe I’m even a little ashamed. I hadn’t thought about that book in years. I didn’t even remember what’s in it—until I started to reread it. It turns out that I did tell guys to pretend the dog story was
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