So yesterday I was stupid enough to get involved in a debate about gun-control on another forum. I had every resolve to stay calm and make my points clearly, but all could think about was the barrel of my foster-father's 9mm pressed against my cheek-bone, and what he made me do...

I barely slept last night. I stayed up until long after midnight, and when I finally went to bed, I woke an hour later after a horrible nightmare. I was 16 again, only much smaller - like a six year old, or perhaps 8. No bigger than that. I was standing in front of my foster father - him with his gun and his pants down showing a huge erection. But my hands and feet were tied. I couldn't move, couldn't fight, couldn't do anything other than submit. It was one of those dreams where I wanted to vomit when I woke up. I still want to vomit, remembering it. And I can only see my T on Wednesday afternoon. I have to get through two whole days...

I guess what I'm trying to say
Is whose life is it anyway because livin'
Living is the best revenge
You can play
-- Def Leppard

My Story, Part 2

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