I think I can die happy now, because obviously I am a successful writer.
who can hear me sobbing violently on the phone without rushing to have me institutionalized.
Thanks for listenin’.
Like writing a terrible, terrible final story for creative writing and The Office being different and not being the Queen of England and stuff.
I don’t feel like me. I am a tomato-red sunburned Erika who cannot remember how to write, has no motivation for anything ever and I don’t even know how to finish this sentence.