If You Don't Know Who You Are,

At Least You Know Where You Are With Blood. At Least Other People Can See It.

It Is Madness. And If You Don't Know Who You Are, Or If Your Real Self Has Drifted Away From You With The Undertow, Madness At Least Gives You An Identity. It's The Same With Self-loathing. You're Probably Just Normal And Normal-looking But That's Not A Real Identity, Not The Way Ugliness Is. Normality, Just Accepting That You're Probably Normal-looking, Lacks The Force Field Of Self-disgust. If You Don't Know Who You Are, Madness Gives You Something To Believe In.

There Is That Doll Dress-up Quality Of Adorable Teenage Girl Writer, And I Never Felt Either As Adorable As I Was Supposed To Be, Or As Dark As The Rumors, You Know, "she Must Have Slept With The Editor," And I Was Like, "oh My God, I'm Still A Virgin." It Was Very Strange.

He Was Addicted To Me And Now He Has Gone Cold Turkey. He Used To Send Me Fifty Texts A Day. And Now He Is Ignoring Me. It's Like I Was Once His Barack Obama. And Now I Am John Mccain, Conceding Defeat Like A Sad-face Sock Puppet, Knowing I Have Sold The Best Of Myself. He, My Electorate, Not Only Does Not Want Me, He Actively Feels Pity.

Well. There Is A Psychiatric Occurrence We See In Men-not Often Women-where They Put All Their Hopes And Dreams Onto One Person, So Intensely That At Some Point It Trips A Wire In The Brain Circuitry, And That Causes Them To Go, In A Minute, 180 Degrees The Other Way.