Dearest people,
It is well in this psychiatric facility. If feels like a poopy diaper and a petri dish. I realize that the darker I get about food old childhood says, the more comfortable I become and happily balanced between love and surrender. Essentially, my life was a pretty good one. And then it went to shit, and I love myself for it. I can be both crazy and abiding and still love the life I hate. That’s just my little spew I’e been doing for as long as my first memories. Cracking my neck finally.
I just feel stoned by my grittiest thoughts making me fall into the leaf–covered traps. I”m on and off between my true feeling and the realest of reality feelings. I can’t come to grips with it. Help me from having myself like that childhood weird tongue-ly taste buds would perturb that stroke of genius. I hate feeling that cloud of power, and I think I might like Gary Jules right now.
Love, Maggie
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