and i scractch my thighs until they are bright red and raw.
i haven't told you about this blog yet, darling. but i will in due time. it's a secret and i like that. in a month or two or three, i'll let you in on this secret.
when i do, you're gonna:
...at first think it's all an elaborate joke.
...sit staring at your computer screen with a look of mild shock and disbelief.
...wonder "how?" and "why?" and, most inexplicably, "what?"
...read and read, through the first page and then through older posts and you'll come upon this one and think "what?" and then you'll page father back and realize that i used your name on the internet. without your permission.
...then be sure that this isn't a joke. it's real. as "real" as any not-actually-physical thing on a computer screen can be. real in that, yes, this is me, emma, writing this and not telling you. real in that it can be no one else but me writing this.
...wonder why i didn't tell you.
...think i'm a terrible hypocrite because i waste so much breath on my dislike of the internet. and what i say about what a bummer and time-waster the internet is true, i'm not lying, i'm just indulging the teeny tiny part of me that likes the internet and the sad impersonalness of it all.
...doubt other things i have said.
...hopefully realize that i like to be honest.
...realize that i am honest; like when i can't say "i love you" to you or my mother.
...get past all of the questions and the no-big-deal lie that isn't exactly a lie because i'm not saying i don't have a blog; i'm just not saying anything.
...enjoy that you can read things that i've written. whenever you like. without me knowing.
and you'll wonder if i was planning on writing this while we sat hand-in-hand at golden angel, looking out at rainy, rainy lincoln square.
i planned this post in the shower as i scrubbed my thighs raw.
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