You Are Allowed To Be Alive. You

And In My Mind, This Settles The Issue. I Would Never Drink Cologne, And Am Therefore Not An Alcoholic.

A Lot Of Being A Writer Doesn't Have Anything To Do With Writing. It's Ironic - I Have To Squeeze The Books In, Even Though That's What It's All About.

I Understood At Once, I Am Not Living, But Actively Dying. I Am Smoking, Living Unhealthily. I’m Shutting Down. I Need To Go The Other Way, Inside. And It Was So Clear To Me What I Was Doing. It Was Suddenly Perfectly Clear. I Understood, I Need To Write. Live Here, In My Words, And My Head. I Need To Go Inside, That’s All. No Big, Complicated, Difficult Thing. I Just Need To Go In Reverse. And Not Worry About What To Write About, But Just Write. Or, If I’m Going To Worry About What To Write, Then Do This Worrying On Paper, So At Least I’m Writing And Will Have A Record Of The Anxiety.

The Most I Would Do Was Use The Shadow Tool In Photoshop To Bring Out The Muscular Rips In My Stomach, Which Were Honestly There. Beneath The Fat.

I Just Look At Her And She Creeps Me Out. She Looks Like She Would Eat A Baby. Not That She's Fat. She Just Looks Hungry In Some Dangerous Way That Can't Be Explained. She's Always So Nice And Friendly. Exactly The Disposition Of A Baby Killer.