No More Talking. Ever.
This week, I am a blistery, bruised, pruned-up nipple. From which everybody I know has come over, sucked out my vital nutrients, and gnawed my skin raw with their neediness and emotional upheaval.

Children? Needy. Husband? Needy. Mother? Needy. Checker at the grocery store? Needy. Panhandler? Would give me a quarter to listen to him bitch until the light turns green.


I would pay him a hundred to STFU and let me have a moment to think.

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