The Blood Of A Redheaded Woman Is

That Was One Thing You Found Out When You Were Stoned, Or Wasted, Or Feverish: That The World Was Always Turning And That Only A Healthy Mind Could Block Out The Sickening Whirl Of It.

All The World Is Made Of Music. We Are All Strings On A Lyre. We Resonate. We Sing Together.

I See God Now As An Unimaginative Writer Of Popular Fictions, Someone Who Builds Stories Around Sadistic And Graceless Plots, Narratives That Exist Only To Express His Terror Of A Woman's Power To Choose Who And How To Love, To Redefine Love As She Sees Fit, Not As God Thinks It Ought To Be. The Author Is Unworthy Of His Own Characters.

And He Paddled Away In His Douche Canoe.

If You Didn't Have Me To Rake You Over The Coals Now And Then, There Wouldn't Be Any Fire In Your Life At All.