Note to V from Violent Acres

I've been compelled to write to you for a while now, ever since I Stumble(d)Upon your website and your NyQuil escapades.

Allow me to introduce myself: My name is Megan. I'm 24 years old. I've been married for 2.5 years. I don't have children yet, and it'll probably be another couple of years before we start a family. I love my husband dearly but we have our ups and downs. I work as a glorified secretary, and I don't like it but I try not to complain because I'm the only one who can do anything about it and I haven't yet. My husband is a Chemical Engineer. I have 3 (adult) cats that I rescued from animal shelters. I weigh more than I should. I spend the vast majority of my free time working on my house (we own), and making crafts.

I've never been abused, and I've pretty much led a happy, charmed, privileged life. I am telling you all of this because it feels as though I know a lot of intimate details about you, and you deserve a semblance of the same level of honesty and transparency.

I just finished reading all three parts of your "Diary of a Teenage Runaway". I understand why you explained your would-be responses to others' most-likely reactions to your story. Mine fit none of the above. I want to hug you - telling myself it would be to comfort you, but really it would be to comfort myself especially since physical affection makes you uncomfortable. And then I want to fucking kill that police officer. Although, honestly, I could switch up the order of those two activities. Boy, typing those words sure doesn't properly convey murderous rage.

I also want you to know that I like you, even though I don't agree with every word you write. Possibly, the best way to put it is that I think I've found a kindred spirit. I hope I'm never dumb enough to take your shit personally. Most of your thoughts and opinions (even if it's just the way you say them) resonate with me in a way that makes me want to buy you a beer and talk about how awesome boobs are, etc.

Also, that same fucking thing happened to me with the sensation of worms - right after we adopted our second cat and I was petting her on my lap and noticed some wriggling white worms poking out of her butt. I've never moved so fast in my life and the resulting paranoia was enough for me to be unable to sleep till I'd been inspected by my thoroughly amused husband. I didn't have worms, but I did learn that (apparently) my asshole is astonishingly clean.

Maybe I'm a gullible idiot for taking your writing literally -- for assuming that what you write is all true. Maybe you're baring your soul while others scoff and imagine you to be something completely different.

I hope I'm right, and they're wrong.

I carpool to work, so at the very least I've been significantly less bored during the extra time at my desk, waiting for my ride, for having read about your life. Mission accomplished.

-Meg