Psychoanalysis through a Love Letter

I don’t know what I was thinking, and I don’t know what to think. I let Mr. Big read my journal. He wanted to read it, because it had him in it. I don’t know what to feel and my emotional state has reached a strange sort of unpleasant excitement where my heart clocks up a 120 pulse rate per minute. I thought about it over some rather over-exposed wine the whole morning after he’d left for work.