When I collected Beanie Babies I put them away in little zippered bags, in tubs, two by two with small furry noses pressed together, ams hugging, so they wouldn’t get lonely. I couldn’t kill a live houseplant, no matter how straggly it got. As long as it struggled for life, roots able to suck nourishment from its weekly allotment of water, it had rights. I was that kind of person.
But now? I’m a rogue and peasant slave. I cannot decide whether I’m a philosopher or a moping teenager, a poet or a murderer, a procrastinator or a woman of action. I might be truly mad, or even mad pretending to be sane….do you have any idea the pressure I’m under being the world’s leading dramatic enigma?
But I suppose . If all they wanted was action, they’d watch nothing but Chuck Norris movies.