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September 25, 2012
My words are here to stay. They are not art. I am no Proust. I am no Faulkner. I'm not even Stephenie Meyer. My words are rantings, angst, hatred, love, confusion, lust... every feeling I can ever feel, compounded into words that can be spoken and articulated, though I have articulated them here without beauty. I do not regret a word, yet at the same time, I regret every word I have ever typed.

Some of these words are true, and some are not. I have played many characters. I have shown aspects of myself. You do not know me.