Then I break a glass and I slit my very innermost thigh so that I can pretend that I'm menstru--- well, unavailable.

I've learned that I work best when I'm entirely naked. The recording process was done that way.

I was reading everything under the sun from music history to feminist literature to Shakespeare, which is why I'm not a complete idiot at this time.

If leeches ate peaches instead of my blood, then I would be free to drink tea in the mud!

And, what's more, this 'precious' body, the very same that is hooted and honked at, demeaned both in daily life as well as in ever existing form of media, harrassed, molested, raped, and, if all that wasn't enough, is forever poked and prodded and weighed and constantly wrong for eating too much, eating too little, a million details which all point to the solitary girl, to EVERY solitary girl, and say: Destroy yourself.

Why can I never go back to bed? Who's is the voice ringing in my head? Where is the sense in these desperate dreams? Why should I wake when I'm half past dead?

I smile to myself knowing that they may be dead.