I have survived. I am here. Confused, screwed up, but here. So, how can I find my way? Is there a chain saw of the soul, an ax I can take to my memories or fears?

So, she tells me, the words dribbling out with the cranberry muffin crumbs, commas dunked in her coffee.

Don't expect to make a difference unless you speak up for yourself.

I am locked into the mirror and there is no door out.

The stuffing/puking/stuffing/puking/stuffing/puking didn't make her skinny, it made her cry.

She turns to us, acts surprised to see us, then does the bit with the back of the hand to the forehead. "You're lost!" "You're angry!" "You're in the wrong school!" "You're in the wrong country!" "You're on the wrong planet!

Look at the stupid, poor people. Look at the stupid, poor, burned-out people. Look at the stupid, poor, burned-out people, look at their dead baby. It's death porn for the masses.