Then one afternoon, he vintage crime/black lizard service

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Then one afternoon, he called me to have a talk, so he said. It wasn't a talk at all. He just hurled names at me, names that should never be said from father to daughter. They were names I'd expect to hear from a stranger on the street, not from any kind of father. When I'd been with John, I wasn't ashamed of having sex. To service me it was fun, a decision I'd made service for myself, a learning experience. But I did feel ashamed when my father said those service words to me. I felt dirty and guilty. I was upset because through it all, none of the names he called was "daughter." His tone and the look on his face made me feel worthless, as if he could just disown me that very moment. I felt completely alone. The First Cut Determined to erase those horrible names from my mind, I took a razor blade from the kitchen, went into my bedroom and began slicing into my arm, until I couldn't cry anymore, until I couldn't take the pain anymore, until I felt clean again.
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