Asian Teddy Bear just told me that I’m the girl next door. He actually thinks this about me. He doesn’t know that I’m drinking and on pain meds (for my foot) when he sees me at the club. Or that I marched in the Gay Pride Parade when I was fifteen. Or that I’ve had sex with so many people that I lost count. He also doesn’t know that I’ve had sex for money, and put pure dimethyltryptamine up my ass in an underground missile base once. Or that I was locked up in a mental institution as a teenager for suicidal tendencies. The list goes on. I’m a good person, but I wouldn’t coin myself as the “girl next door.” Unless being the “girl next door” means having a gracious heart—I have that in abundance.

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