I Live By Edith Whartons Rule To

Basically, All Anyone Has To Do Is Ask Me For Fun Details Or Tell Me To Be Creative, And My Mind Turns To Mud. I Am Instantly The Most Boring Person You've Ever Met.

But Then You Hear That He Can't Hear You, You See That He Can't See You. You Are Not Here--and You Haven't Even Died Yet. You See Yourself Through His Eyes, As The Generic Woman, The Skirted Symbol On The Ladies' Room Door.

It Scares Me. But Then I Get This Big Feeling, Simple But Exalted: He's Like Me, Just With Different Details.

Up Until That Moment, I'd Been At The Earliest Stage Of Love, When You Feel It Will Turn You Into The Better Person You Want To Be. Now, His Gentle Voice And Sage Advice Took Me To A Later Stage: I Felt I Needed To Pretend To Be A Better Person Than I Was So He'd Keep Loving Me. This Was Hard Because It Made Me Hate Him.

I Guess Love Is The Real Suspension Of Disbelief.