Just Once I’d Like To Meet A

In Each Of Us Lie Good And Bad, Light And Dark, Art And Pain, Choice And Regret, Cruelty And Sacrifice. We’re Each Of Us Our Own Chiaroscuro, Our Own Bit Of Illusion Fighting To Emerge Into Something Solid, Something Real. We’ve Got To Forgive Ourselves That. I Must Remember To Forgive Myself. Because There Is A Lot Of Grey To Work With. No One Can Live In The Light All The Time.

I Am No Longer Content To Be The Scared, Obedient Schoolgirl. Who Are You, A Stranger, To Tell Me What I Can And Cannot Do?

It Isn't That We Do What We Want. It's That We're Allowed To Want At All.

So Much Of The Literature We Had To Read For High School English Class Was Filled With Victimized, Tragic, Symbolic Women Who Spurred The Plot Forward With Their Inevitable Shunning/death/shunning-followed-by-pregnancy-followed-by-death Timelines.

Perhaps This Is How Girls Fall -- Not In Some Crime Of Enchantment At The Hands Of A Wicked Ne'er-do-well, A Grand Before And After In Which They Are Innocent Victims Who Have No Say In The Matter. Perhaps They Simply Are Kissed And Want To Kiss Back. Perhaps They Even Kiss First. And Why Should They Not?