And I, love, am a pathological liar.
The one thing I was good at was winning scholarships and prizes, and that era was coming to an end.
I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?
The day I went into physics class it was death.
That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.