By Véronique Darwin
She said Valentine’s Day was a weight off her shoulders. She said people said she had a nice ass. She said, “Who should I like now?” She asked questions of herself like this. She said, “I am wheezing and I just poked a pimple.” She’s so silly, but she knows she’s silly. She’s talking to herself. She’s writing for posterity. It’s so odd! Why did she not stretch out of herself a little, then, if she knew time would be going on as it was, but longer, and longer, forever even? Why couldn’t she just take a second to go away? Couldn’t she have left a diary sitting somewhere and gone and done something, for a while?
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