You Set Fire To My House, Killed

No One Asks How Or What I Am Doing. They Could Not Care Less. We’re All Looking Glasses, We Girls, Existing Only To Reflect Their Images Back To Them As They’d Like To Be Seen. Hollow Vessels Of Girls To Be Rinsed Of Our Own Ambitions, Wants, And Opinions, Just Waiting To Be Filled With The Cool, Tepid Water Of Gracious Compliance. A Fissure Forms In The Vessel. I’m Cracking Open.

I've Never Done Acid, Finding It Hard To Go Willingly To A Place That Could Be Frightening, Hellish, And Totally Beyond My Control. A Place Much Like High School.

God Doesn't Like Lesbians," Grandma Huberman Hised, Throwing The Magazine In The Trash. Jennifer Knew What Lesbian Meant, And She Knew She Probably Was One. But She Couldn't Understand Why God Would Hold That Against Her Or Against Monica Mathers, Who'd Never Started A War Or Killed Anybody, And Whose Deadeye Three-pointers Were Straight-up Amazing. After All, Hadn't God Made Both Of Them? But People Were Like That, She'd Noticed. They'd Invoke Godly Privilege At The Weirdest Of Times And For The Most Stupid Reasons.

I Don't Have Time To Feel Sorry For Myself. I've Got To Think.

The Hand You Hold The Longest Is Your Own.