Sometimes, I feel like a phony. It's so easy to put on a mask and smile and pretend to be the perfectly normal, cultured woman that society conditions me (to want) to be. But inside... I feel like it's all a farce. Like the angel that others see I am, this little creature, is all fake. It's an act.
Some men may have notches on a bedpost but I have notches in my heart, and there have been many people whose hearts I have broken with a smile and empty pleasantries. Maybe people are readily bewitched by what they want to see, to a fault. I believe that.
I still want to write about something, a sad story, a story from my heart that will somehow satisfy my longing. If that's even possible given the current state of rot my brain is in...
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Behave yourself, now. ;)