You Are Truly Satan's Sequined Spawn.

I'm An Oddity Of One, My Strangeness Too Complicated To Explain Or Share.

The Sun Has Blessed You," Sarita Used To Say. "look How He Has Left His Kisses On Your Face For All To See And Be Jealous." "the Sun Loves You More," I Said, Rubbing My Hands Over Her Dry Arms, The Color Of An Aged Wine Gourd, And She Laughed. But This Is Not India And We Are Not Prized For Our Freckles Here. The Sun Is Not Allowed To Show His Love.

My Misery Is Reaching Epidemic Proportions.

I Wish To Live For Myself. I Should Never Want To Be Trapped.

Think: Who Has Vans, Huh? Soccer Moms And Serial Killers.