I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll's body. Sickness begins here; I am a dartboard for witches.

Every day one has to earn the name of 'writer' over again, with much wrestling.

God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.

Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.

If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.

The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself "the girl who wanted to be God." Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.