Here I sit on a Saturday afternoon, cozy in bed as I type this. Charlie, my sister’s dog that stays with us frequently, is curled up at the end. Enya is playing in my headphones in an attempt to put myself in a writing mood. Dana is mowing the lawn, and it is also going on in the background as I type antiphonally.

Using a music term brought be back around to my voice lesson, and how grateful I am for them. The voice that I thought I’d lost has been found… and now that I see my teacher once a week, I have the chance to perform some amazing repertory that I previously thought “unpossible.” In fact, when I was talking to him about what to sing for church, he said, “How do you do with Bach?” I could only quote another singer, which at this moment I cannot remember but is in the pantheon of singers that I have met between church music and my sister being in the children’s chorus at Houston Grand Opera, but I digress. The singer said, “not well. It shows all my flaws with breath control.” It is so absolutely, completely true that I could not put it any other way. Melismas that go on for three pages are not my idea of a good time.

I will sing Bach, eventually. I will… and none of that wimpy “O Sacred Head Now Wounded” crap. I’m talking Et Resurrexit, people. I’ve done it once before, with Trinity Cathedral choir in Portland, but it was truly a half-ass kind of fumbling in the dark. I figured if I got 40-50% of the notes right, I could hide behind the real sopranos.

My whole life, I’ve thought of myself as “the velveteen soprano,” because when my sister and my abuser were both in my life at the same time, I couldn’t have wanted it more and I couldn’t do anything about it. The attention was on my sister as a singer and me as a trumpet player. I chose trumpet in the sixth grade, and once you’re on the track, it’s moving without a place to unload.

There was one time in the 11th grade where I made varsity choir and varsity band in the same year (and was the first person in the history of Clements High School to do so… or, at least, that’s what Mrs. Buehler told me and I’m going to believe her because it strokes my fledgling little soprano heart.

Anyway, it comes time to try out for All-District, and I make both of them. Turns out, All-Region tryouts for band and choir were on the same day, and thus ended my academic singing career. The All-Region contest was actually for marching band, and we came in 7th. Maybe I should have gone with the choir.

I had a God moment during Jeopardy!, and for once I am not talking about when I tell Dana that I am the Jeopardy! GOD because I got a really obscure question right and she has no friggin’ clue how I managed to pull it out of my ass. I mean I had a real God moment, the kind that makes you pick up your notebook and jot it down so your ADD doesn’t stop you from really analyzing it later. It’s later. The category was “Amen,” meaning that all the questions were words containing the letters a-m-e-n in order. The 100-watt bulb that went off in my head was due to the question, “what is sacrament?”

According to Wikipedia, the catechism included in the Anglican Book of Common Prayer defines a sacrament as “an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace given unto us, ordained by Christ himself, as a means whereby we receive the same, and a pledge to assure us thereof.” Those are very fancy words, but what do they actually mean?

I have a different take on communion than most Anglicans/Episcopalians because I grew up in the Methodist church, where we practiced open communion. In the Anglican/Episcopal church, it is a Rite to be able to come to the table- you are prepared for it and the chair is pulled out. In open communion, it doesn’t matter what you look like, how you’re dressed, if the curlers are on or off. It doesn’t even matter what age you are. When you go to your family’s house, you eat.

Yvette Flunder has a great sermon about it. We’re all family, and we all show up for this meal with each other once a week. The part that Dr. Flunder leaves out that I am adding is a new take on what miracle actually occurs- you get food anyway.

You get food anyway.

Years before I started dating Dana, I was dating a woman in my church that I really liked, but it was a disaster of an idea from the start. We were just too involved with ourselves to care. We broke up, and the fallout was nuclear in its blast radius. That Sunday, I came to church with the clothes I’d been wearing from the night before, hadn’t brushed my teeth, and had clearly had a very good (or very bad) night. I was a walking accident, and to add insult to injury, I was also crying. I got in line for communion and went to the rail.

I was so sad that if there had been an altar, I probably would have put my head on it… and when my minister reached me, she saw my pain, my distress, my utter disarray… and she gave me food, anyway. The miracle of communion is that everyone who comes to the table is fed, regardless of anything that might divide them. The example is confessional, but our stories are the same.

We are all fallible and irreplaceably human and all have those moments where if the grace of God was placed directly on our tongue we’d have trouble realizing it was RIGHT THERE! RIGHT THERE! WE ARE TOUCHING IT- WE ARE SO CLOSE! What keeps us all from breaking the barrier between “almost” and “really” is our part of the deal- the one where we openly, freely accept God’s grace. In fact, if we’re not open to it, we won’t even accept grace from ourselves, much less God. Receiving grace is opening yourself to the possibilities of the universe and simply saying, “let it be so.”

sacrAMENt

It is so hard to go to work this morning, when what I really want to do is drive over to Wi-phi’s house and smell his hair. Seriously, that could be the end of the post right there. It’s a mixture of baby shampoo and little boy that lingers in my nose long after I’ve left him.

He’s just turned one, so he’s changing every single day and what I’ve noticed is that I don’t have to do anything with him. He’s an explorer in his own right. He doesn’t want help with anything unless he’s in over his head, and even then, he only wants help with what he can’t manage. Heaven forbid if I step in a moment too soon.I have learned a lot about myself in those moments. I am much more patient than I’ve ever been with anyone. Of course he can do it himself! Of course he can! All I have to do is wait. He doesn’t run on my time clock. What I’ve missed in the past is that overwhelming sense of patience needed to let a toddler put on his own shoes, feed himself, etc.On Monday, he took a huge box of blocks and dumped them onto the floor. In that moment, I taught him how to sit there and hand me his blocks so that “we” could clean up his room and IT WORKED.It is so much fun learning that Wi-Phi is his own man already. In fact, now that we’ve conquered pear yogurt, I think we’re ready to take over the world.

Really? No, not really. I’ve just sat down several times to write today, and can’t think of a title. So I just wrote down the first movie I saw when I turned on Netflix. I thought it made a better title than Tesla: Master of Lightning… but maybe not. Please advise.

Today is the last day of my staycation, and last night was weird. I fell asleep on the couch around 7:00 and woke up at 2:00, wide awake. I’m recovering from not sleeping well, which is not what I wanted to do but apparently what my body says I need. I’m happy to have the chance to just relax while the house is empty and I get to do my own thing.

However, I can’t stay away from Dana and Wi-Phi too long, because I don’t want to waste a day that I could have seen him and didn’t. I realized what a miracle he was all over again when we were teasing my sister about being so overprotective of him. She said, “since we had to wait six months to find out if our kid was going to die, we’re very overprotective.” I will never tease her ever again. Not fucking ever. Even though there were two other people there teasing her with me, I singled myself out  because we had to have a little discussion. I know better than that. I was foolish to forget. I punished myself appropriately and then treated myself to a diet root beer because I was so good while I was being scolded.

For those of you just joining us, that was a hard time for both Wi-Phi and me. Wi-Phi was born with the major valves of his heart reversed, and was going to have to have surgery either in utero or minutes after delivery. He didn’t, but he could have died on the table.

The week before, my abuser said that she’d come to therapy so that we could resolve some of our issues. I told her that we were very emotionally crispy because of the baby and didn’t even want to interact with her if she was just going to leave again.

Things were looking up, and then while Wi-Phi was on the table, she sent me a note that said we were beyond reconciliation… and fortunately, it was just our relationship that died instead of Wi-Phi. I tend to think that I got the better end of the deal.

Zerberting his neck is way easier than trying to zerbert hers.

Our “staycation” has taken a turn for the worse. We’ve missed out on doing local vacation-type things because Dana’s allergy to yellow food dye has blossomed nicely. She is miserable, and rightfully so. I’m doing everything in my power to stay by her side and keep her comfortable. Translation: I am also very into watching Netflix on the couch. While this vacation has turned out differently than I’d expected, turning my brain off and sleeping as much as possible while I can is just what I didn’t know I needed. So, in a roundabout way, thanks to my honey for getting a freak show of a rash to teach me the moral of that story.

I know what her eyebrows are going to look like when she reads that.

That sentence will make her laugh, which is my favorite thing on God’s green earth. Dana’s laugh, if you’ve never heard it, is the kind that lingers in your memory because you can’t remember the last time you heard that much joy coming out of one person. Laughs envelop Dana like water. When I hear Dana laugh, everything else feels far and away… which is the small vacation I get to take for a few hours each day when I get home and she is there.

People have asked me why I don’t write more about Dana, and my answer is always the same- I don’t talk about her in therapy, either, because I never have any problems with her that I need to think about in long form. I don’t need to mull anything over in my mind with or about her, because we are on the same page; we are two very different sides of one gorgeous coin.

If we are struggling with a particular issue, it’s generally that we both have the same questions and concerns, rather than different ones. I don’t really have the ability to compare and contrast how we feel about things, because they are so similar that it comes across well in conversation, but not necessarily on paper.

I mean that in the best of ways, because Dana and I have been married for so long that our stories are tennis matches. We both know our lines. We love being funny together, and we each know that we’re the perfect person for the other, flaws and all.

In short, I don’t write about Dana because I write to research myself, and the part of myself that belongs to her is all. figured. out.

Dana has to be at Wi-Phi’s house around 6:45, and I don’t have to be at work until 9. I’ve started waking up with her, though, so that I’m ready and dressed with a couple of hours to kill. That way, when I get to work, I’ve already had time to drink coffee and really wake up. Perhaps write a bit to you. It’s perfect, and I’m glad I insisted on setting up my day this way.

It really took being moved to graveyard shift to clearly see how badly life needs structure to function. Rubbing against the grain of your circadian rhythm destroys homeostasis. I am so grateful for our global economy, because in my own case, when the UK office opens, no one in our office will have to work graveyard anymore. It is a relief to my mind to know that the probability of ever having to go on nights again is dwindling sharply.

Since I didn’t take a vacation after my night shift was over, I’m working today and then off until Tuesday just for the hell of it. I really want to go to some fun Houston things, like Space Center Houston, the Butterfly Center, and all the museums. The choir is off for the summer, so we may or may not go to church. For this week, I want to shake up my routine so that I’m thankful for when it returns.

Labor laws aside, as well as my own sanity, sometimes I wish I didn’t have days off. As an ADD person, routine is critical to my survival. Interrupting it for two days sometimes creates more problems than it solves. I try to be diligent about waking up at the same time, taking my medicine at the same time, etc. but still there are times when I feel a quiet unrest because something is missing.

It also says a lot about the work I do that I like the routine so much. I look forward to getting up every morning, and I like how the metrics from the day before come in my e-mail so I have a constant running tally of how I’m doing and upward trends get me verklempt. It’s like getting your report card every morning with a star on it if you do it right. 🙂

Remember that feeling? Remember that feeling of getting back a paper with an A on it? Remember when you got back that paper with an A on it and you didn’t know how in the hell you got it? To me, those were the most fun, because it usually meant that I’d made up a bunch of educated bullshit at 3 AM and they’d bought it.

In the case of my job, though, that kind of trick wouldn’t work, because numbers don’t lie. Numbers put progress (or not) right up in my face- 8×10 color glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back. Some people wouldn’t like it, but I do. I’ve always been the type person who takes the emotional temperature of a relationship every five minutes, and now I can do it without stalking people for information. Thanks, fourth grade graph-reading skills!

As I’m thinking about this topic, it reminds me of something my dad and my sister used to do every morning as she was getting out of the car. This story takes a little setup.

When I was in sixth grade, our parsonage burned to the ground and we lost everything. Some jackass fireman said in front of my sister that the fire started in the attic above her room, and that if she’d been sleeping she’d have been killed… so she didn’t sleep soundly through the night for like, two years after that. She also went through such anxiety that she didn’t want to go to school, so my dad came up with a solution. He came up with a ritual when he dropped her off that they’d say, “lucky day. Gonna getta E today. Wave to me.” At Lindsay’s school, E was the highest you could get (in conduct, anyway). He also gave her a slap bracelet (tight) that she used as a talisman to remember dad was with her in spirit that day.

I get that feeling every morning when I wake up. I’m gonna getta E today.

As an aside, last Christmas I got my sister a silver and pink beaded bracelet at our church bazaar. When she put it on, she said, “this is my new slap bracelet.”

I didn’t know that many tears and that much snot could come out at once, but it was the happiest cry I’ve ever had.

My life feels so good right now in a “better than sex, drugs, and Rock & Roll” kind of way. I am elated that Dana and I get a chance to be a part of Wi-phi’s life on such a significant scale. I am overjoyed to have a great job 15 minutes from my house so that I never get caught in traffic, ever, even during rush time. It is mind-blowing to me that I can come home for lunch every day, and take a real break from the cacophony that is my office.

I have the life that makes me want to do more,  be more, accomplish more. It’s a new beginning, because I’m not afraid to engage anymore. I can stand toe to toe with everyone I meet, because I had the realization that I had so many gifts in terms of taking care of people and I was using them on everyone but me…. so they were working…. on everyone but me.

It’s another thing my father taught me. When you live with a pastor, you watch them interact with people every single day, and it teaches you to move in the world with compassion if you let it. I learned the very definition of soft power, particularly after I read a great book called Jesus CEO: Using Ancient Wisdom for Visionary Leadership. It was then that I was able to put together the types of social interaction I’d watched my whole life. Soft power has a way of encouraging people to be who they need to be to get things done, rather than berating them into productivity. I’ve extrapolated that into every area of my life. I try to build up relationships instead of tearing them down.

I try.

I am incredibly human, after all, and I make mistakes all the time. The difference is that now my interactions with myself are building me up, as well. I treat myself with kindness and inspire myself to be better than I thought I could be. It’s uplifting for all of that power and care is coming from me, to me. Light is radiating from the inside.

I am now a sun after spending so much of my life as a moon. Moons are beautiful, intensely so… but if the sun turns, how well do they fare wandering in the dark? They’re there… will always be there… but invisible to the naked eye.

Dear Wi-Phi,

As of this writing, I have 36 years under my belt. You have one. We’re both in a better place than we were last year. I was discovering some truths about myself that I didn’t want to face, and you were being evicted from your apartment. Together, we’ve grown. We’ve laughed. We’ll both look back on this year and realize how important it was to our development.

Yesterday, I got to have lunch with you and my whole body smiled. I came home and you were curled up with Dana on the couch, a living Norman Rockwell moment of overwhelming emotion. You’d gotten a haircut since the last time I’d seen you, and your little-boyness came out, the reminder that you’re slowly becoming a man right before my eyes… and I’m becoming an aunt right in front of yours.

Your laugh is mischievous, infectious, and healing… because I feel good about myself when I can impress you. It’s “The Dana and Leslie Show” when you’re around, because what makes you laugh is different than what makes us laugh, and we are straining our comedic muscles. It’s good for our development lest we want to take it on the road.

I spend a lot of time thinking about the things I should impart to you as an adult in your life. There’s all kinds of cultural stuff, from Doctor Who and Regular Show to Star Trek and Star Wars. It’s deeper than that, though. I think about modeling, and what that means as I have you in my life to such a large degree. When Dana agreed to be your nanny for the summer, I didn’t realize how much it would make our friendship grow, too. I want to be the best person I can be, because the decisions I make now are going to influence the decisions you make later. I don’t want to screw it up, but at the same time, right now your expectations are incredibly low. As long as we feed and water you, you’re fairly self-sufficient.

Seriously, I have never met a baby like you. It’s like you’ve been born with the spirit of a Buddhist priest, never expressing anger or frustration unless something really is wrong. There’s no crying just because, and believe me, we appreciate it. We are also low maintenance. Like you, if we’ve got on a clean clothes and we’ve been fed, we’re good, too.

You’re making noises now, a lot of them, like you’re trying to learn words but your mouth gets stuck. You don’t get frustrated, though. You just move on to a new syllable. You also love to “read” and we are waiting breathlessly until you are old enough to take the quotes off and join us in the sea of literature that has amassed in terms of the books Dana and I want to pass on to you. Trust me, you won’t like all of them. But you’ll like some of them. And whether or not you like what we like is irrelevant. You are so loved that there is nothing that would ever divide us, If anything, I’m inspired by you.

I should have said “Dudeist Priest.”

Love,

The AuntieLeslie

Hi all-

Dues are up for my web site. If you’ve read something memorable here, leave it in the comments even if you do not choose to donate. The box is on the right, and any amount means everything. It will keep “Stories” going for another year, where I will continue to seduce you with the world’s most introspective spectacle… which works as a double entendre, because writing is the lens through which I see the world.

Besides, I know I’m your dirty little secret. Text means you can read me at work. And you do. My traffic spikes during the work day.

SPIKES.

Recently I had a conversation with a friend who has been a long-time supporter of “Stories…” Two of them, actually. The first comment I got was, “I’ve been enjoying your blog a lot lately.” I took the compliment in, but I still wanted to talk to someone else who’d been there since the beginning, but not because I needed validation that the compliment was real. I wanted to see something deeper. Have I changed since this started?

Her response was thoughtful ~ “it doesn’t vibrate with pain the way it did last year.”

No, it doesn’t.

I told her that this blog was never meant to be static… that it would change as I did. I thought some more about it (of course I did), because the comment was so completely what I needed to hear that it gave me a lot of pause.

There has been a lot of pain over my lifetime, but nothing that I couldn’t handle. They call it going through hell for a reason… eventually, you come out of it. This blog was meant to start out as a dark tunnel and progress toward the exit, as if I was emerging from something, because I was. That “something” was all the years of lies I’d let myself believe. It was all of the years that I marched forward with no evidence that anything was going to happen, much less “something.” It was learning new sets of expectations that I set for myself, instead of letting them be set for me. It was a shot in the arm to move myself, because the waiting was killing me.

I could never put my finger on what I was waiting for until I realized that I wasn’t waiting for anything. Of course I had my own wants and needs, but I was used to having them completely ignored… so, in reality, even though I thought there was a “something,” there was always a “nothing.”

Always.

For instance, she told me that when I was 18, I was welcome to come and live with her and go to Portland State. She wanted to get me out of the Bible belt as quickly as possible. At the same time, she told her partner that she thought that when I was 18, I would “just go away.”

The dissonance was always there, and I was blind to it. As I have crawled out of the dark tunnel and into the light, I began to look at the same situation with new eyes, and you are the ones that gave me the ability. If there’s anything I owe to this web site, it is gaining sight that I’d otherwise lost.

He had me on my back in less than a minute. Well, maybe that’s exaggerating a bit much, but within the first ten, that’s for sure. I felt completely safe as he put a book on my stomach and asked me to make it go up. When I’d come in, there was a dark color to my low range, and he was trying to help me lighten up. He took the tension out of my shoulders, my throat, my chest… In short, I realized how far I’d come as a singer, and how far I still have to go.

My abuser has a gorgeous voice, and it tickled me that I still tried to fit in some of her appoggiaturas and other stylistic choices, such as forgetting the words and making them up, along with forgetting how to count in the middle of a phrase and making up the rhythm, too. My abuser may be my abuser, but she also taught me what it was like to fly.

The more I got warmed up, the higher I went. My B and C floated off and I fell in love with my voice teacher a little bit… As sopranos do when someone shows them the way to an even higher range.

Then my voice teacher and I started working on options for solos at church. First, we did “The Lord is My Sheperd,” by John Rutter. I wish I could remember the name of the other two, because I was so familiar with the Rutter than I wanted to sing something else to strain my brain. I chose the melody that got stuck in my head immediately like a mind worm.

I had to choose something I like and can get comfortable with, because once I’m in front of the congregation, there are so many things to think about that the words need to be muscle memory.

Even metaphorically, the book has to move.

Slowly, I’m learning to change the channel. But there are still days when the left-over issues between the abuser that lives in my head and my present consciousness start duking it out. Yesterday, it wasn’t even at my initiation. It came from Dana asking me how I was doing- just a general update.

I told her that I thought I was doing a lot better, I said, but there isn’t any moment of any day that I forget what happened. I don’t think about what she did to my sexuality- she never touched me herself, but inserted herself into my life so that when I did start thinking about love and sex and all of those thing with women my own age, I felt like I was cheating on her and I got the impression after I talked to her that night she was jealous and angry… but probably not because she was jealous it wasn’t with her. I think she just realized that our lives were moving apart, and there was nothing she could do to stop me from aging. That’s only conjecture on my part, but I remember plainly sitting on my top bunk with my Mickey Mouse sheets, journal in hand, as I told her I’d lost my virginity. Her voice seemed strained, throat as tight as a cassock three sizes too small as she said, “welcome to the girls’ club.” My reaction (of course) was to try and make her laugh so that the awkward moment between us would pass. It killed me that I thought I’d done the wrong thing, that I should have waited. It was too much cognitive dissonance in my head to hear her sadness and NOT wish I’d waited. The next time we saw each other, all was forgiven, but I’ve never forgotten that still, small voice.

However, as I told Dana, there was a bigger implication with her abuse. It made my mother’s, my father’s, and my sister’s voices all fade into the background so that I couldn’t hear them clearly anymore. I was isolated into thinking that I could only trust my abuser, which is generally what abusers do in the first place.

The reason I’m so much better than I was is that I’ve finally made the connection that I have a lot of work to do on myself, because all of the people who were supposed to be primary in my life haven’t gotten a chance until now.

I’ve also gone through the guilt I laid upon myself for even publishing all this. I honestly and truly didn’t want to hurt anyone, but I knew that the moment I breathed anything, there would be people all over me to hear more. I have been pleasantly surprised that no one has wanted to know anything, and I have been free to complete my own analysis of myself without any sort of interference. It’s a wonderful thing to have space… because now I really know what I think.

The next feeling I have to explore is that when I became an adult, I didn’t explore all of these questions *then.* I’m not the type of person that is afraid of conflict. I guess you just don’t see abuse unless you want to. That’s my only advice to myself as I continue to figure this stuff out.

…and as I continue to learn that my own story matters just as much as everyone else’s.

My dad wrote one of these for his dad. Here is mine. It wouldn’t be mine if it wasn’t late.

1. There is Never a Time One Should Look Unkempt

These are the things my father has taught me. Not necessarily the ones I exhibit in the outward sense. While my father is usually in a suit, I am usually in jeans and a t-shirt. It is not lost on me that people are a lot nicer to him in public than they are to me. Dressing nice has its privileges. He should know. He began wearing suits in high school.

2. Apologize When You’re Mad

I never got the chance to walk away from an argument, and ours are epic because we are the same person in two bodies AND WE ARE BOTH ALWAYS RIGHT. However, neither one of us have ever walked away from a fight without apologizing and meaning it.

3. Mean Not To

God, it was so irritating when I was a kid. If I said something to the effect of, “I didn’t mean to,” the response was always “mean not to.” It’s emotional shorthand for “try to figure out how not to hurt someone in the first place.” At the time, I thought it meant that there were no accidents. It still does. The meaning has changed for me as I learn the ways I can be really annoying and trying not to unleash it on other people.

4. Funny Fixes Nearly Everything

There’s no reason to do anything without humor. My dad has proved that to me many times, and that advice has gotten me out of sticky situations. People rarely want to hurt other people that make them feel good.

5. Starting a Conversation is Easy

I have incredible social skills, and most of it comes from having watched my dad navigate all kinds of social situations with grace. Don’t know anyone? Sit down randomly and say, “I like your shoes.” You will be amazed at how easily the conversation will go from where he/she got those particular shoes to anything and everything else if there’s a newfound connection… because what do people like to talk about *the most?* Themselves.

6. Somebody Has to Be in Charge

There can always be collaboration, but at the end of the day, someone needs to be held accountable. someone has to direct the flow of traffic. I’ve learned a lot from him about how to be one of those people without seeming like a dictator or doormat.

7. Having People Look at You is the Point of Doing Silly Things

My dad taught me that “they’re all going to laugh at you” is a good thing… and how to use it to my advantage. When you make people laugh, good things tend to happen for you. Because of my dad, I can hold an entire room of people in the palm of my hand… just because they’re waiting to see what I’m going to do next.

8. Love All You Can

We’ve always had this saying in our house- “if I have it, and you need it, it’s yours.” He taught me that there’s literally no place on earth I could go to get away from his love- that he would always find me if I got lost. I’ve loved other people that way even when they haven’t loved me back. Of course it hurts- but what is the point of life without it? What is the point of love so shallow you can’t even feel it there?

9. There is No Such Thing as Quiet Brass Music

WHAT?

10. Be Who You Is

My dad never reacts when I have new tattoos, new piercings, or anything that could even be construed as body-altering. It’s not that he doesn’t care how I look. It’s that he would accept me no matter how I looked.

This week, the most popular topic on my Facebook page has been the story regarding the Maryland teacher who went to the house of the child he was texting and the father hit him with a baseball bat. I caused a bit of controversy because I was on the side of the teacher, but not because I thought he’d done the right thing. I just thought that the parent should have taken a breath and had a Coke and a smile while he waited for the police to take the teacher away. Taking the law into your own hands rarely turns out the way you think it will or should.

There was so much blowback afterward~ including one person who said that a teacher texting his daughter gave him the right to any number of irrational acts.

And then I put it together why I was on the side of the teacher and I started to dry heave and run for the toilet.

It was just texting. They were just talking. How inappropriate could it get? I mean, it worked out so well for the teacher writing me when I was that age.

I need to throw up again.