Pope Joan.

It occurs to me that I like the idea of loving you for your car crash body, or in spite of. I have contracted the saviour complex, akin to that of my Grandma. It's disturbing that I feel the need to render someone so passive, in order that I can be the saviour.

I read about Pope Joan the other day. She's a legendary female pope. She dressed as a boy to continue her learning, she was promoted to Pope and all went swimmingly until she gave birth in a public procession (or mounting a horse, depending on which version you read). They tied her to the horse and dragged her through town, or stoned her to death, or sent her to a nunnery and the baby became a bishop, according to legend. That's why popes have to sit on the seat and someone proclaims, "testes habet and pendulous something", "he has testicles and they dangle stupendously". People are bastards. I don't think it's a real, true legend, apparently the dates are wrong, but I'm sure something like that has happened because people are continually terrible to each other. Reading it made my insides contract, and I couldn't sleep after because it seems so terrible.