In Other Words, It Was A Struggle

I Don't See What's So Good About Being Genuine. Clog Dancing Is Genuine. Isn't Being Fake More Of An Achievement? At Least It Takes Some Inspiration. Like, Sherbet Dips, They're A Special Food. Think Of All The Additives And Coloring And Grinding That It Takes To Create A Sherbet Dip. But Carrots? They're Just Out There, Shrieking, "hi, We're Some Carrots! Love Us For It!" They Never Have To Prove Themselves.

I'm Not Crazy Or Dangerous, Just A Bit Eccentric And Lonely.

I Finally Accept That Not Only Do I Not Understand The Death Of My Relationship, But I Do Not Need To. These Men Were Good And Kind To Me, They Loved Me And I Loved Them Back And The Shock At The Finish Holds No Wisdom. The Revelation Is Not That I Lost Them, But That I Had Them.

I Wouldn't Say That My Emotions Are Extreme. I'd Say They Are Committed. My Moods Are The Equivalent Of Madonna's Dancing: Inappropriate But All-out. If I'm Going To Be Sad, I Might As Well Be The Saddest A Girl Can Get. And If I'm Happy, I Want To Be The Happiest. The Trouble Is, I Feel Highs So Ecstatic That Just Being Normal Feels Like A Thousand-mile Drop And Being Unhappy Is Excruciating.

He Was Addicted To Me And Now He Has Gone Cold Turkey. He Used To Send Me Fifty Texts A Day. And Now He Is Ignoring Me. It's Like I Was Once His Barack Obama. And Now I Am John Mccain, Conceding Defeat Like A Sad-face Sock Puppet, Knowing I Have Sold The Best Of Myself. He, My Electorate, Not Only Does Not Want Me, He Actively Feels Pity.