The first thing I did when I got free digital library access was to read a book about a murder. Written by some sanctimonious sociologist with more time on her hands than respect.
and i was crying for somewhere between half an hour and an hour, under my pillow so my flatmates wouldn't hear and start asking when was the last time I saw her, or why I bring her up so often if I'm so reluctant to talk about her.
I don't know what she was to me. Either an aunt or a second or third cousin. I hadn't even thought about her for more than two weeks simply because I had so much other stuff on my plate.
I love you (her) so much. I always will, and I always have had it in me whether or not I was aware of it. And if my love for you is to be sold on the neurotypical meat market to unscrupulous doctors as a "bad habit" along with every other aspect of my existence then I will go through every intervention available, for you, as you watch me from above telling me subliminally that it will never be of any use.
Why must I follow them when I can follow you? More people have a dead celebrity for a role model than any of us would want to think
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