I hide my guilty desire to spend long periods of time alone. Of course, when I wanted something, I always knew it. Greed, while unbecoming in a woman, is prized in men. He opened doors for me, refused cute pet names, and fucked me righteously. My body demanded something to show for itself.
Writing is thievery, as in stealing time.
Anxiety is a sticky substance infused with fear. Dollar for dollar. Or, for instance, poverty. My own collusion in bourgeois appearances bleeding me dry. The need to be seen or recognized outweighing other emotional vaunts.