Lotta people calling me Stacy lately.  I don't think they have any idea what that does.  I've failed in the past to communicate it properly I think.  It's like calling the Beaver Theodore.  It's formal and annoying.  Only health professionals and the DMV do it, ordinarily.
    Lotta people telling me how strong I am.  They don't know my boot knife's been confiscated and my left arm's been carved, in reverse order.  They don't know that I am still getting emails and other messages from mercenaries, soldiers and wannabes as a result from Tuesday night's drunken activities.  I'm not strong, fokes, I'm stupid.  I feel like eminem here:  don't ya wanna grow up to be just like me? 
    Rebar tells me I'm a bit mistaken about reason #2.  It's not that he's uncomfortable about my sexual history, it's that he was worried that patterns carried out in my sexual history might continue into the future, and some of those patterns might be destructive.  He insisted that he wasn't being judgmental about my past, just looking out for the future.  On the phone I agreed, but upon reflection, it still looks like judging to me.  Not that judging is wrong.  Most of human self-preservation is built on being able to judge others and ourselves.  If he thinks I have made foolish choices in the past and might make those same foolish choices in the future, then that says something about me, doesn't it?  That was a highly fixable problem, but that is moot because there is nothing I could do about reason #3.
    I don't think a squad of therapists can fix reason #3.  It's a very complex problem, not my responsibility.  But he's decided.
    It's going to take all my restraint not to ride his ass about his efforts to be a better husband.  He'd better do it and he'd better do it well.  He'd better convince his wife to help him make theirs a better marriage.  Because if all this has been in vain, I am going to be very, very pissed off.