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October 21, 2010
She listens as she is analyzed, picked apart and put back together again -- take that, Humpty Dumpty. She listens and she forces down the rage that is rising up her throat.

You tell her who you think she is, and what you think she could be. She bares her teeth in false smiles. She tastes the rage on the back of her tongue as it slowly floods toward the tip, toward her teeth, her lips.

Who the fuck do you think you are? she would like to say, but doesn't. Some kind of literary prophet?

It's not about perfect prose.