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Your father tried to get her to go back to school, but she was too intimidated. Her headaches grew worse. The doctors said it was all in her mind. You were in love with your mother, of course. Oedipus had journal nothing journal on you. She could do no wrong, while your father was a cold tyrant in your eyes, though you journal never in seventeen years of living at home heard him raise his voice. Every girl you dated seemed a pale comparison to Saint Mary, with her porcelain skin and kind, changing eyes. They were too content, the girls in Ann Arbor, not tough and guilty like the Catholic girls in Boston, not soulful and depressed like your mother. Even when you kissed them, felt their soft breasts under their sweaters on dates, they seemed devoid of mystery. Those flat chested girls from home with their scabby knees seemed infinitely sexier, and the thought of the women they were blossoming into was enough to drive you mad.
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