I'll never tell you.

If I thought you really cared I would but I feel as if you are just asking out of morbid curiosity.

I read once that some people in Africa laugh at death, it's their custom to. They are not allowed to cry because this shows weakness and the spirits will prey upon it, and than the spirit of the dead person might come back, attracted to their sorrow.

I am on the edge looking at myself trapped down below.

I had a conversation for two hours, the deepest one I've had in awhile, and it turned out it wasn't even real. You were drunk, or is that just an excuse and why do you even need one?

I am so disillusioned, so sickened. Disillusioned is a great word. The illusion is gone, it's been ruined. The fairy food is nothing but leaves and thorns and dead bugs with hairy legs, and I ate it all, gorged myself sick.

When I meet the one I will love again, I will hate him at first. I will hate him for seeing through my bullshit, my manipulativeness, my weakness, my scared acting out. But he won't be scared of me. He won't lash out at me. He won't tsk tsk at me. He will just hold me and understand, or try to. You're sick, baby. You are sick. 

Joely? 

Yeah Tangerine? 

Am I ugly? 

Uh-uh. 

When I was a kid, I thought I was. I can't believe I'm crying already. Sometimes I think people don't understand how lonely it is to be a kid, like you don't matter. So, I'm eight, and I have these toys, these dolls. My favorite is this ugly girl doll who I call Clementine, and I keep yelling at her, "You can't be ugly! Be pretty!" It's weird, like if I can transform her, I would magically change, too. 

[kisses Clementine] You're pretty. 

Joely, don't ever leave me. 

You're pretty... you're pretty... pretty...