What an indulgence it would be, to just blow off my head, all my mean spirits disappearing with a gun blast, like blowing a seedy dandelion apart.

There’s something disturbing about recalling a warm memory and feeling utterly cold.

And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls.

People love talking, and I have never been a huge talker. I carry on an inner monologue, but the words often don't reach my lips.

I feel like I need to give people a note with the book that says, 'I'm OK, no worries!'

It was that summer, too, that I began the cutting, and was almost as devoted to it as my newfound loveliness. I adored tending to myself, wiping a shallow red pool of my blood away with a damp washcloth to magically reveal, just above my naval: queasy. Applying alcohol with dabs of a cottonball, wispy shreds sticking to the bloody lines of: perky. I had a dirty streak my senior year, which I later rectified.

I'm not someone who can be depended one five days a week. Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday? I don't even get out of bed five days in a row-I often don't remember to eat five days in a row. Reporting to a workplace, where I should need to stay for eight hours-eight big hours outside my home- was unfeasible.