May 16, 2004 02:14
Yeah you make me smile. I might puke.
Eat right. Exercise. File annulments. Abuse children. You seem like a happy person to me.
Never leave the hospital. It's a safe place. Not lyrics. Not poetry. Not thoughts. Not bloody placenta. These words English fecal soup say care not.
Send me back,
Hand Jackey
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my 12-year-old-episode-of-depression'd
old.
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