White Paws is sitting in here with me as I write. Jesus fucking goddamn Christ! He has another cold! Is there something wrong with this guy’s immune system or what? And how damn naïve of me to believe him when he said he’d get fewer colds if I quit smoking, on top of it improving our sex lives, on top of God maybe having a reason for me to have finally been able to quit smoking. And now this means I have to get sick, too. Yes, he’s had a lot of colds that I didn’t catch, but I caught the last one, so what’s to say I won’t catch this one? Well, I probably won’t, but the threat’s still there hanging over my head.

Tom believes I’ll have my period within the next few days. Oh, I know I will. I know there’s a period somewhere at the end of this late shit. I don’t know if God’s trying to tease me, to worry me, or what, but we both know I couldn’t handle a child and that having that period would be what’s best for me and what’d be right.

So I guess it’ll end up to be a total of 3 weeks before we finally screw again. Thank fucking God I have a low appetite and would rather just quickly take care of myself, otherwise I’d be itching for the Melanies of this world. The ones that were bi or gay, that is, that were willing to go down on another fem here and there. I’d have an easier time getting a girl, too, cuz of being married. That way they wouldn’t feel so threatened if they knew I was already tied down with someone. And also, I think that they’d like the 125 pounds better than the 100 pounds. I’d just have that young, innocent face, and the long hair against me.

Right now I’m just so frustrated. I just wish God would either give me my goddamn periods on time and have them be normal, or just have something go wrong like yesterday, and have me have a hysterectomy. I’m tired of playing these games. I get so much sicker of the thought of sex and a child, the more I’m jerked around with it.

I finished proofreading the 70s file.