My Truth Is That What Doesn't Kill

I Love Prada. Not So Much The Clothes, Which Are For Malnourished Thirteen-year-olds, But I Covet, With Covety Covetousness, The Shoes And Handbags. Like, I Love Them. If I Was Given A Choice Between World Peace And A Prada Handbag, I'd Dither. (i'm Not Proud Of This, I'm Only Saying.)

Although Will Never Love Anyone Again, Don't Want To Become Bitter. Or Creative.

I Went Grey At 12, My Eyesight Went At 17. I've Been A Crock From Very Early On.

... I Am More Of An Ambler. I Once Overheard My Old Boss In Dublin Describe Me As Very "hello Trees, Hello Flowers." It Was Intended As An Insult And It Fulfilled Its Brief; I Was Insulted. I Had Little Interest In Greeting Trees And Flowers But Nor Did I Treat Life As A Treadmill, On Which It Was Vital To Keep Fleeing Forward In Order To Avoid Being Sucked Off The Back And Out Of The Game.

You Know What It's Like. Sometimes, You Meet A Wonderful Person, But It's Only For A Brief Instant. Maybe On Vacation Or On A Train Or Maybe Even In A Bus Line. And They Touch Your Life For A Moment, But In A Special Way. And Instead Of Mourning Because They Can't Be With You For Longer, Or Because You Don't Get The Chance To Know Them Better, Isn't It Better To Be Glad That You Met Them At All?