Who But The Mad Would

Hey,” The Cabbie Yelled. “how’s About A Tip?” “you Bet-ski,” Evie Said, Heading Toward The Old Victorian Mansion, Her Long Silk Scarf Trailing Behind Her. “don’t Kiss Strange Men In Penn Station.

I Feel Like I Swallowed A Magritte. Like On The Inside, I'm Made Of Clouds And Floating Eyes, Green Apples, And Slowly Rising Men In Bowler Hats.

Why Should We Girls Not Have The Same Privileges As Men? Why Do We Police Ourselves So Stringently- Whittling Each Other Down With Cutting Remarks Or Holding Ourselves Back From Greatness With A Harness Woven Of Fear And Shame And Longing? If We Do Not Deem Ourselves Worthy First, How Shall We Ever Ask For More?

So Much Of The Literature We Had To Read For High School English Class Was Filled With Victimized, Tragic, Symbolic Women Who Spurred The Plot Forward With Their Inevitable Shunning/death/shunning-followed-by-pregnancy-followed-by-death Timelines.

I Hate This Place,” Tiara Whimpered. “it’s Super Creepy. Like A Haunted Chuck E. Cheese’s Where The Games All Want To Kill You And You Never Get Your Pizza.