And speaking of women who ... well, women ... when I got off the train yesterday afternoon, there was this woman coming up the other staircase, and brother, she was into the Lord. She had on a t-shirt that said "I have been SAVED," and with headphones on, she was singing, "Jeeee-zus! Jeeee-zus!" over and over and over again.

Not just mumbly singing. Choir back-up chorus singing. Loud. And she was dancing as she walked with one hand to her ear (so she could hear what the lord was saying to her better I guess). Like, step-step, one step back, step-step, one step back. A modified Charleston. And I'm pretty sure she was walking with her eyes squeezed shut. Of course, everyone was giving her a pretty wide berth, so she wasn't liable to run into anybody.

I am glad that I wasn't on the same train car with her. If you yell, "Jesus Fucking Christ would you shut up?!" at someone like that, you don't really know what's going to happen. Lightning bolts I imagine.

A fairly subdued evening last night. Deb made a fake-crab pasta salad for dinner that was nice. I had major runs of South Park proportions this morning, which wasn't as nice. I thought it was the crab. Deb thought it might've been the cayenne pepper she added.

We also got to puppy-sit for Lucy and Ricky across the street. They have a new Jack Russell terrier puppy (they already have an adult one�you'd think they'd learn) that's just adorable. She wobbled around and explored and snorted a few lines of pollen and played with Tyler then totally crashed when daddy came to pick her up.

Deb is all excited about a new book idea. She wants to write an autobiography from the angle of her sexual history.

I had planned not to go into "Deb's Stuff" in this diary, but my feelings about this book project won't make as much sense if I don't do a little explaining.

Deb is an incest survivor. Her father molested her from the time she was somewhere between 10 and 13, I think, to the time she left for college when she found out that he'd been molesting her sister as well. He's still alive. Still out there. Now married to his third wife, a woman who's younger than Debbie.

Deb ignores his attempts to stay a part of her life as best as she can.

I guess that's about all I need to say.

One more thing which helps explain part of why I am who I am. He was a minister during and after the years that he molested Deb and her sister. In fact, every child molester that I've ever heard first-hand accounts of from friends and girlfriends has been a minister or a deacon or a church elder. This is part of the reason why I don't trust most Christians any further than I could throw one. Pedophiles hide in churches very, very easily.

My response to the fact that this man who hurt Debbie so badly still draws breath is rage.

Now, back to the point of my narrative. Deb likes to use me as an editor for her writing. I'm experienced, I'm good, and I don't lie to her if I don't like it. I give constructive criticism.

So she wants me to read this and work with her on it when she has parts of it down. I had a hard enough time reading her outline that talked about her wondering how she would've turned out differently if she'd been able to discover masturbation on her own through self-discovery. Or if she'd learned how to kiss by kissing boys her own age.

We took a walk and talked about it last night. I had to say that I didn't want to read it. I would if she really wanted me to, but I don't want to read it.

My feelings about her father are feelings that have nowhere to go. I can't erase what happened; I can't kill him. I can take care of Deb the best I can and love her with all my heart. But I'd do that anyway. I don't have anything to do with that rage, and it makes me feel powerless. And I hate feeling powerless.

So Deb's a little disappointed. She's really excited about the project. I think it will be great for her to write it all down. It'll probably be really good.

And there's one other thing. In our sexual relationship so far, I've been able to keep thoughts like, "Her father has done to her what I'm doing to her now" out of my head. I'm afraid that if I read her story and about how she feels the abuse influenced her sexual development, that thoughts like that might come to the forefront. It might also help me understand her better. But in a way, I'm happy with how I understand her now if I don't have to risk letting him into our bedroom and into my head.