I pay you for advice and not to live my life for me. your love is so over protective that I don’t live; and I have to wonder if being s******* used now and then and having some fun just to put a smile on this drab inexpression able face I carry wouldn’t be better and then all the depression and loneliness which feels a worse cruel death with all my deep seated inner suffering I have to keep to myself, and how the frustration is literally causing cancer in my body from inside the bones out to skin. and who will be there to take care of me, when you are gone?
