I'm Proud Of What I Write And

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

People Get Sick And Sometimes They Get Better And Sometimes They Don't. And It Doesn't Matter If The Sickness Is Cancer Or If It's Depression. Sometimes The Drugs Work And Sometimes They Don't. Sometimes The Drugs Work For A While And Then They Stop. Sometimes The Alternative Stuff Works And Sometimes It Doesn't. And Sometimes You Wonder If No Outside Interference Makes Any Difference At All; If An Illness Is Like A Storm, If It Simply Has To Run Its Course And, At The End Of It, Depending On How Robust You Are, You Will Be Alive. Or You Will Be Dead.

I Couldn’t Be With People And I Didn’t Want To Be Alone. Suddenly My Perspective Whooshed And I Was Far Out In Space, Watching The World. I Could See Millions And Millions Of People, All Slotted Into Their Lives; Then I Could See Me—i’d Lost My Place In The Universe. It Had Closed Up And There Was Nowhere For Me To Be. I Was More Lost Than I Had Known It Was Possible For Any Human Being To Be.

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.)

My Mother Is The Best Storyteller. And Her Mother Was Too.