I had a book on me at breakfast. The husband thought I was making a point. The title was A Life of One's Own. (Subtitle: Nine Women Writers Begin Again.) Reader, I wasn't.

At least he did not read the text on the book flap: “A few years into her marriage and feeling societal pressure to surrender to domesticity, Joanna Biggs found herself longing for a different kind of existence. Was this all there was? She divorced without knowing what was coming next…”

Fuck these dark nights of the soul. I wanted time to be with my feelings, but not like this.

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