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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