Voulez-vous coucher avec moi (ce soir)?

So, I was right. As my veins ran with infection, and my blood boiled with fever, I ended up going to the hospital and taking care of myself. Well, I went and they took care of me. My fever had spiked to about 104, and I really had no other choice. I'm feeling much better and I had a few ideas that wandered through my brain of things to write about while I was sitting there being pumped with antibiotics.

I used to carry around a little notebook, covered in clovers with me, wherever I went. It was my little doodle book, notebook, diary, book of secrets, or whatever you might call one of those things. Over time I had written tons of thoughts in there. Secret crushes. Romantic encounters. Arguments. So my little black (and green) book was always in my Prada bag that was thrown over my shoulder, and every once in awhile, I'd pull it out, scribbling something. My friends often wondered what I scribbled, but I never gave up the 'dish'. One day, this book vanished into thin air.

I looked high and low for this book. Under my bed, in my purses, pocketbooks, drawers, piles of clothes, under the dresser, and even in my kitchen cabinets and under the sink. This wasn't the only book like this I'd had. I have boxes of Composition books that I've written in on and off, over the years. But this book was different. It was a diary. It was my secret place. These were the days that I wasn't all that internet savvy and I honestly don't think blogger was around then anyway, but I've always had the urge to write. I didn't find it. It was MIA.

Two weeks passed and the book stayed fresh on my mind. One evening I was watching TV with my boyfriend and he nonchalantly asked me, "Who's Alex?" My heart stopped. I choked on the slice of apple I was swallowing and picked up my glass of water to try to drown out the dryness that had suddenly overtaken my mouth and throat. "Who?" I retorted, with a slight crack in my voice, my hand rising to clutch my neck, knowing exactly who he meant. "Alex. You know. The guy you you find irresistible." (I have to say, in my defense, that I often find people absolutely irresistible, but when I'm in a relationship, I'm completely faithful.) I wasn't worried that he'd figured out I was having an affair, because I wasn't; but I was worried about the fact that I complained to my little black and green friend that he wasn't satisfying me and I'd closed my eyes on more than one occasion and thought of, Alex. By now, I had managed to get up begin walking into the kitchen. I was speechless. I felt so guilty. A dizzy feeling was rushing through my head and body, and tears welled in my eyes. My face flushed hot and was probably a nice shade of crimson. My back was to him as I walked away, swallowing back those little chokes that come with the tears. I felt violated. These were my private thoughts. My private feelings, and I felt like he had betrayed my trust a hell of a lot more than I had betrayed his, just by peeking into my brain. The guilty feeling that had swept over me just moments before were replaced with rage and disbelief. Why should I feel guilty about expressing my private emotions out into a private place, meant only for my eyes?

I turned on a heel and asked him where the fuck my book was. He smirked and said he didn't have it anymore. The tears weren't welling in my eyes anymore. My hands were balled up in fists and tears were streaming down my cheeks. I cocked my head back and let out a cry that could've woken the dead. "You fucking asshole! Give me my book!" I was the modern day Carrie, only I wasn't covered in pigs blood and didn't get a tiara out of the deal. I think what upset me the most was him sitting there with a smug look on his face and this little smirk. A tiny smile that made his lips curl up on the side, just a smidge. I picked up the ashtray on the table in front of me and hurled it across the room. It slammed into the side of his head and I heard a nice *clink* sound. His hand quickly reached up to to rub his head where it struck, and yes, he was bleeding. Normally when I do something this impulsive, I run to the aid of whoever I flipped out on and profusely apologize, but in this case, I was looking for the next thing to throw. "What the fuck, S? What the hell is the matter with you? " he screamed, pulling his tee shirt off and holding it over the side of his head where the ashtray struck him. "I'm gonna need fucking stitches! God Dammit!" A warm feeling washed over me and I'm pretty sure I had the same look on my face he had just moments before that ashtray smashed against his head. So I scream at him again, in a stronger, more confident cry, "Where is my fucking book?" He reached into the sofa cushion right under him and pulled out my book. It had pages folded and a couple of post-it notes sticking out. I assume he had thumbed through it, page by page, marking things I'd written that he felt I needed to be confronted on. He didn't mention a thing. He had that defeated look in his eyes.

Needless to say, we broke up. I can forgive many things. I can forgive yelling, screaming, bringing another girl in for sex, bringing another guy in for sex, stealing my panties, hitting on my friends (as long as it's only flirting). I can forgive, leaving dirty laundry on my favorite chair, opening my mail, taking advantage of me while I'm sleeping, borrowing my deodorant, and leaving the toilet seat up. I can forgive, a lot of things. I think I'm fairly tolerant. Fairly liberal, but not in some Nazi feminist sort of way. But I can not forgive, cheating, spying, or betraying my trust. It's a short list, but one I stick to, most religiously.

I share my innermost secrets with you all that read this blog. It's sort of become my little black and green book. I love the feedback I get from people and I love feeling completely uninhibited. Thank you all so much for the well wishes when I got sick. I appreciate them so, so much.