The Over-Educated Nympho

Readers often tell me that they like my blog because it’s so unabashedly honest. Over the course of the last year and a half, readers have said with varying degrees of awe and suspicion, this chick can’t be real. No one’s that honest.

Of course no one’s that honest, not face to face. Oh hell no. And by “no one” of course I mean me. Shit, especially me. For someone who lays it all out on the computer screen, I reveal very little of myself face-to-face. It’s those two opposing personas who make up me. Their separation grows by the day.

It’s here in the blog that I make up for what I never say in my ordinary life. It’s between the hours of eight pm and three am that I admit what I’m really feeling, and then it’s only under the cloak of a dark room and a pen name.

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If someone walked into my apartment for the first time, she would think two completely different people lived here.

The kitchen table is covered in neat stacks of white binders, thick textbooks, and four different colored highlighters. Post-its peek out the sides marking important pages. It is silent except for the sound of the coffeemaker. A lovely young woman sits in a metal chair (purposely uncomfortable to prevent falling asleep) and studies like the good ruthless ladder-climber she was raised to be. What a fine young professional! Clearly she is responsible and orderly (the closet is organized by color for fuckssake) and arranges all her toiletries on the counter by order of use in the morning. Her shoes are always polished and her hair smells nice. Let’s call her Victoria.

Then walk into the bedroom, where the other girl lives in a world all her own. Let’s call her Vix.

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