BOOK OF DAYS 108, 273

I stood there, manipulating Vicky Winters, pleading for acceptance.  I almost begged her to call me Angelique so that I could apologize or laugh or sob.  My histrionics would have made John Simon cheer.  I stormed out, in a display of furious self-pity, and then gloated.  Afterwards, I hated myself.  It had been the one time I’d spoken the truth.  

Why do I have to tell a lie to let someone know how I truly feel, and why do I truly feel it?




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