Mistress Zion

I sit across the table from you, tolerating your idle small talk, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at your pathetic, not quite subtle enough attempts to get into my pants.  Dinner, while delicious, can't be over quickly enough.  I've always hated this part, pretending to be interested, leading them on just enough to keep them oblivious.  The check comes, the server places it on the table.  I arch an eyebrow at you, and you gleefully pick up the tab, thinking that you're buying your ticket.  We...

Obviously you created an account because you have a need to give. Where does it come from?  What is that something?  Tell me.    Is it a need to provide for someone you don’t have in your real pathetic life?  Someone to take care of to complete your purpose on the planet?  ...