I am a hopeless, shameless flirt.

I believe women who are supported by men are prostitutes; that is that, and I am heartbroken to live through a time where Wall Street money means these women are not treated with due disdain.

I am not a nostalgic person.

The idea of throwing away my depression, of having to create a whole personality, a whole way of living and being that did not contain misery as its leitmotif, was daunting.

I was the only person going to a prostitute in search of true love. But somehow, no matter how often I was disappointed, I was always game for the next round, like a drug addict hoping that a new fix will give him a rush as good as the first one. Only I’d never even had the initial euphoria that makes a junkie keep coming back for more. I always sought solace in places where I knew, I didn’t belong.

And I always feel so stupid sitting in therapy talking about my problems because, Jesus Christ, so what? I can’t equate the amount of pain and misery and despair I have suffered and endured as a depressive with the events of my life, which just seem so common.

The words madness allows its users to celebrate the pain of its sufferers, to forget that underneath all the acting out and quests for fabulousness and fine poetry, there is a person in huge amounts of dull, ugly agony.

So many more cycles of elation of the first kiss, and devastation when it’s over.

Depression gave me extreme perspicacity; rather than skin, it was as if I had only thin gauze bandages to shield me from everything I saw.

Bad girls understand that there is no point in being good and suffering in silence. What good has good ever done?