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If Jamie is my ego, Max is my id and Ellen is my superego, then Lily is my masculine self-hatred.
Lily is the criticizing, nagging, scolding voice in the back of my head, loudest during my darker periods of guilt and despair; the one holding up mental images of stalkers, flashers, serial killers, date rapists, wife-beating drunks and the more exotically irredeemable perverts, saying These are all men. You are male. Therefore, this is you.
We all have one of those, right?
...right?
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0312-------------------------------------
(Saturday afternoon, INT: hallway outside EB and JH's apartment)
JH: You know what? I am going to work. I'm ending this conversation that's making you visibly uncomfortable right now, and I'm leaving the apartment for the next few hours so you can game without me.
LH: Really?
JH: Yes.
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JH: Because even though I don't share and I don't even understand your thought processes, I respect your autonomy, and I'm going to do something to make you happy on your own terms instead of on my terms because God is nice.
LH: Right. Good. Fine. Whatever. Leave. Go. Goodbye.
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[LH is moving to the door]
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JH (making boogita-boogita hand gestures): PENIS PENIS BOOGITY BALLS Y CHROMOSOME VAS DEFERENS!
LH: GO TO WORK, YOU PSYCHOPATH.
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