I called a chat line last night, and had phone sex with a woman suffering from a brain tumor.

In My defense, I was unaware of her mental disability, but as the phone seduction wore on it became apparent that I had unknowingly entered into a precarious moral dilemma. Frankly, it was unsettling, and there was a heavy sense of shame as I gently lead the call to its vulgar culmination, finishing inside the efficient toy My friend Blaire had brought Me back from her recent trip to Japan.

As I laid there in the dark, a pool of ejaculate congealing in the crater of My bellybutton, I contemplated what had just happened and rationalized My selfishness so that I could sleep easy. Sure I was a degenerate, but the guilt festered, like lingering mouth ulcers scattered across My bleeding gums–I had told her I needed to do something really quick and would be calling her back, knowing full well that I had no intention in ever doing so.

I set My phone on silent, and went to bed. In the morning, there were 27 missed calls, and 9 voicemails. I blocked her number, made My bed, and went to the kitchen to brew some coffee.

I ate breakfast with My Abuela, and she told Me a funny story about why she can't stand cats. When she was a little girl in El Salvador, a feral cat once snatched up her supper and made off with it–a chicken breast her mother had fixed especially for her, and 82 years later she's still griping over it–it was a cute story.