Entry 3

You want to see some fucking anger, I'll show you fucking anger. I'm and sick and fucking tired of people assuming that the fact that I'm angry has something to do with the fact that I'm a lesbian.

I like women, love them, have since middle school and that is that. I'm a lesbian because I like women. That's how that works. Suddenly some asshole wants to call me a "bulldyke" behind my back because I make him do laps. If he had the intelligence to do what he was supposed to in the first goddamn place he wouldn't be running laps. The fact that I then have to discipline him for fucking around has absolutely nothing to do with whether I like dick or pussy. I'm tired of it.

Yes, I broke his fucking arm, serves the son of a bitch right.

Of course that earned me a second trip for the week to the psychiatrist, who naturally noted that I hadn't written in my journal the night before, so that must be why I had so much pent up frustration. Yeah, that must be it. It's not the fact that the motherfucker was talking about me, he superior officer, behind my back. It's not that somehow when people know you're gay they think that's grounds to disrespect you. It certainly has nothing to do with being an orphan since I was six years old who got to watch my mother raped in front of me. NO IT'S CLEARLY BECAUSE I DIDN'T WRITE IN MY FUCKING JOURNAL.

Doctor, I know you're reading this. Don't you sleep too fucking deep tonight, cause one of these nights I'm going to come into your house while you're asleep and I'm going to slit your fucking throat. Did you lock your door when you came in tonight? Better go check again.

Fuck it, I'm going to the gym.