Lately, I have been doing nothing but writing smut and listening to smut and scrawling every word I want to say onto drifting sheets of paper, on the backs of receipts, on the free space of my body, places where random little bits of me will be found when they eventually pack me up and ship me to the morgue.

I used to write in my diary growing up, pretending that in the future, someone else was reading, someone else was wondering about me, wondering how I lived and who I loved and how sad she was...