When I was younger, my brothers and I would hop the sunday school bus to attend classes.

After we were too old for that, we'd do housework.

Since I don't consider myself a religious person or even a believer, Sunday is just another day off for me.

Sundays have turned out better for me, since they've mellowed out. I also love that "The L Word" is on Sundays, but hate that I can't always make it to my brother's place to watch it. He watched the Superbowl yesterday, and according to a few emails I've received today, Janet Jackson's boob was exposed to millions of people, thanks to Justin Timberlake.

Why am I so needy?

It's only a tv show (that I've kept updated on through 3 yahoo!groups since last year). I came to a conclusion: I don't have a social life, so I channel it through television. Sex & The City is where I can sit in on other women's sex lives; Queer As Folk is where I can sit in on other gay sex lives, so The L Word is where I can sit in on Lesbian's sex lives, of which I don't actively participate in, not while living at home anyway.

I don't bother with looking for love or sex. I'd rather be lonely and horny than heartroken and betrayed. I hated being used and abuse, and that asshole rapist was the last straw. Nothing puts you off sex like being told "You're saying no, but you're losing!" Certain things won't leave my mind and continue to haunt me. Sex only triggers a bit of it, sometimes alot of it. There's so much tangled up in it that I can't separate the two.

I read on diaryreviews about how the reviewer thought the person in their diary should open up more about the rape: I was offended at that. How easy is it for anyone to open up about such a shitty thing like that? I envy anyone who thinks it's the easiest topic to just blither on about, like talking about housechors. I don't talk much about it,and sometimes I wish I never told anyone about it. I wish it never happened, so why would I want to talk about it? It's not easy to talk about, it's not easy to process, it's not easy to survive such a shitty fucking thing, and it's not easy to have it thrown at you everytime someone else is accused of it and tons of people support the perpetrator instead of the victim.

I hate talking about it because deep down, I wish I could talk about it forever until it's out of my system. I don't want it in me, but it's in every cell. I survive with this fucking trauma every single day and I hate every breathing moment that I have to. Of all the worst things to have happened to me, this caps them all. Even the other shitty fucking things that have happened to me, as painful as they still are, aren't as torturous as what that asshole did. Even if his 'friends' don't think of him as a rapist, he's at least a creep.

I'll never get over it.

I'll write my diary entries in here and in my paper journal, but it'll still follow me everywhere like a wood tick, painfully so. I can't express enough hate. Life has been colorless since that fucking shitty incident. I can't forgive someone who won't accept what damage he did, belittling it, saying I consented to it, wanted it and even liked it, and won't even fucking apologise. He's the scum of the earth as far as I'm concerned. His photo belongs on a dart board or on my toilet paper. I've had hateful fantasize about him but killing him would last too short a time. To injure him slowly, revive him, then torture him some more sounds better.

He's my no.1 enemy, along with anyone who supports him.