I'm being told from several different directions right now that there is more to me than my vagina.
OH! Thats' not what the fella last night said!
And so. What with sort of wanting to be a proper grown-up writer and all- you know... One that lives in one place for more than eight months at a time and lets people actually stay the night rather than just the thirty-eight minutes it takes to have everybody get what they need. The sort of writer that might make money from their craft one day or at least not be looked at like Wagner from the X-Factor when they have finished reading aloud their piece (IT HAPPENED). The sort of girl who in general might actually begin to contemplate using the word career and who isn't mean to people with babies. Yeah. What with all that. I thought I'd share a grown-up piece.
Alternative title: Suicide Note.
But then I realised that probably isn't funny.
SEE. I am growing up.