Give me a piece of paper and I’ll draw you a map of my life done in chubby wax crayons, all smudged and illegible, and that’s just how I like it.

I am a child of the Id, the victim of knowledge and the bastard of a generation with too much to fight for and not enough energy to do it

Oversharer and overshowah, i live the slipped life, soak in it until my fingers shrivel like a woman who has lived already.

Consider me postal, consider me open, consider me here.