New today. Two letters. A letter from a john. That is, a jane. "I Was A Girl Who Had Gone To A Prostitute." A letter from a working girl. "I Feel More Alive." As for me? I can't sleep. In other news, I hear some chick who used to write for Jane is doing a story on male prostitutes, the kind who have sex with women, I believe, for New York. I'm probably not supposed to repeat that, but it's not like I give a fuck.
Stressed out of my brain about the heavily parental role we play when we look after our charges, many of whom are very sick and die, bullying from registrars you can't fight, the sexual tensions rife amongst lonely doctors stuck temporarily hours from home, I found myself sleeping with a teddy bear every night for the first time since I was eight. -- "I Was A Girl Who Had Gone To A Prostitute"
At the end of the day, my cunt belongs to me and I'm the one who gets to enjoy it. After I'm done, I lie in bed naked and count the cash. It's crazy and surreal and beautiful. -- "I Feel More Alive"
A night terror, also known as pavor nocturnus, is a parasomnia sleep disorder characterized by extreme terror and a temporary inability to regain full consciousness. The subject wakes abruptly from slow-wave sleep, with waking usually accompanied by gasping, moaning, or screaming. It is often impossible to fully awaken the person, and after the episode the subject normally settles back to sleep without waking. -- Wikipedia
