So you try to think of someone else you're mad at, and the unavoidable answer pops into your little warped brain: everyone.
I never actually plan sequels. They demand to be done.
....a perfect paper airplane.
Without poetry, stories would be told in sepia.
I was about six years old, still Daddy's little girl, even though Daddy couldn't care less about me. How could I expect any man every would?
I want to open myself, let him inside. But how do I give what has already been taken?