It Took A Long Time, But My

I Envied Women With Signature Hair-dos, Signature Perfumes, Signature Sign-offs. Novelists Who Tell Vogue Magazine: “i Can’t Live Without My Smythson Notebook, Pomegranate Noir Cologne By Jo Malone And Frette Sheets”. In The Grip Of Madness, Materialism Begins To Look Like An Admirable Belief System.

My Thoughts Are Messy, My Emotions Are Messy, My Body Goes In And Out At Will. The Raised White Scars On My Arms And Legs Are The Only Aspect Of My Being That Comes Close To Minimalism. They Came From Chaos, But It Is Hard To Carve Frustration And Unease Into The Flesh. Only Straight Lines.

Well. There Is A Psychiatric Occurrence We See In Men-not Often Women-where They Put All Their Hopes And Dreams Onto One Person, So Intensely That At Some Point It Trips A Wire In The Brain Circuitry, And That Causes Them To Go, In A Minute, 180 Degrees The Other Way.

Your Own Love Story? Your Paramour May Have Had Lovers Before You. But No One Has Ever Loved Him The Way You Do. No One Has Ever Heard Music. Not The Way You Hear It. The Songs Are Beautiful Vampires, Asleep In Your Ipod, Coming Alive At Night, Aglow. You Can Have Them On Your Hours, Yours To Conduct. Music Shapes Us And We Shape It.

The Truth Is I Have Had, For Whatever Reason, Several Movie-star Boyfriends.