I'm Not Crazy Or Dangerous, Just A

What People Don't Understand When You've Already Been A Suicide And Pulled Through Is That After The Sadness Comes Fear: Where Is My Mind Going With This? I Don't Want To Die. I Do Not Want To Die. When You Don't Have So Much Control Over Your Own Thoughts, Over The Myriad Voices In Your Head, You Don't Know Where They Could Go.

I Think It's Sort Of The Hypothetical Point Where Communism And Fascism Meet. They Love Tragedy, And They Love Surface Beauty. You Just Watch It Play Out Over And Over In The Media. It Was The English Edition Of Glamour Who Were Looking For Stories Of Iraqi War Widows, But Specified That They Had To Be Attractive.

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.

When I Was Younger I Loved Betty Blue, And At The Moment I'm Completely Besotted With Angelina Jolie. But Sometimes I'm Unnerved By The Idea Of Men Liking Her. Because I Think That There Is A Side To Every Man That Really Wants To Watch A Woman Fall Apart.

Are You Mine?” Yes. “are You Mine?” Yes. “are You Mine?” No. “no?” No. I Loved Being Yours. But Now I’m Mine, Which Is All I Ever Was, In The End.