Journal Entry #11
Therapy Journal
Dear Rhys,
We need to talk. Not like talk talk, but like, you need to hear the deranged jungle beat of my heart because I’m spiraling in glitter and longing and feelings, and frankly? It’s your fault. Yours and Jett’s and Benji’s. You’re all complicit in my emotional crimes.
Let’s start with the facts. I broke some boundaries.
Smashed them, really. Like emotional pinatas.
Surprise! There’s stalking inside. But in my defense, and I will always defend myself in these pages like it’s a courtroom of one, I did it because Chad is acting shady.
Hank is involved. Something stinks and it’s not my vanilla sugar shower gel, which by the way, Jett bought for me.
He bought me soap with scent-memory implications.
You know what that means? I’ve imprinted on him.
Anyway. You said journaling helps externalize emotions. Well here’s my emotional confetti cannon: You left me gifts. All three of you. And I don’t know how to cope with being loved in high-definition. I had to lie down on the floor.
I think I’m going to combust. Or cry. Or hump the gift bag and cry while combusting.
So now I’m journaling. Like you told me to. Because otherwise I’m going to show up at your office wearing only your anklet and ask inappropriate questions about Freud. I don’t even know what Freud said. I just know I want to unpack with you. Nakedly.
I’m going to Benji’s when I finish this. I don’t have your address. And he holds me like he knows how breakable I am, even though I’m wrapped in barbed wire and bad ideas. I love you all. In wildly different ways. And it’s not normal. But nothing about me is.
Please don’t take my gold stars away.
Rhys Journal
You gave me jewelry.
We haven’t even fucked yet. I haven’t broken into your house. I haven’t carved our initials into your office chair or left a lock of my hair under your bed or made a collage of your outfit rotation with scented glue sticks. We are so wildly out of order and I’m not coping well.
This feels alarmingly like something normal people might do. You gave me a gift bag full of fiancé-level shit. Do you understand the implications? Because I do, and my uterus has been vibrating in Morse code ever since: engaged. engaged. engaged.
I’m spiraling. I’m sweating. I licked the anklet.
Is this courtship? Are we engaged? Should I start practicing my signature with your last name? Do you want a shared Google calendar? Should I buy us matching robes? Do we tell the others or let them find out in a chaotic group text at 2am?
I’m going to combust. You romantic terrorist.
Benji journal
I know you picked out that nightie. Don’t play coy, you oversized Disney prince with a dick that ruins lives. I felt your big gentle paws all over that choice. You want me sweet and soft and slinky and fuckable, huh? Well.
I’m wearing it to your place. When I sneak in. And then I’m going to ride you awake.
No hello. No warning. Just me, purring like a sex-crazed housecat in sheer lace and absolutely drenched in shimmer lotion. Which means you are going to be drenched in shimmer lotion. I will make you a glittery monument to my lust. A sparkly, moaning skyscraper of joy.
Your thighs will sparkle. Your chest will gleam. You’ll be too pretty to explain to EMTs if I break you with love.
I love you. You beautiful, beefy, glitter-covered dreamboat.
Jett Journal
You were in my house. I saw the note on the mirror. “I hate you too.” With little hearts. You kissed the glass. Used my good lipstick. You stole shit from me.
That’s not trespassing, babe. That’s soulmate behavior.
The llama? Gorgeous. Perfect. I named her Murder Cupcake and she sleeps beside me now. What did you name the chili pepper?
I can’t wait for our training session tomorrow. Also, can we fuck on the weight bench? Just to, like… claim it? For us? For chaos? For the shared delusion that we’re normal gym-goers and not emotional arsonists with sex drives that could level small countries?
I hate you. I want you. Bring chalk. And a boner.