The men who came to strangle me were shrinking my world like the most delicately tinted of bubbles, shrinking in ever narrowing circles from the upward gush of my own infancy. You’ve got to be crazy to see a psychiatrist. Don’t call me if you’re gnawing on a bad day, and all you want to do is have a discussion.
We all marry our mirrors, someone who reflects how we feel about ourselves at the moment. Every wife is a mirror of her own husband’s failures, and every husband a reflection of his wife’s successes.
If you want to make money, you find a void in society and fill it. With more than 60 percent of women being snuffed, it’s no wonder a sharp promoter saturated the market with anarchists feeling their inadequacies.
Their words fall like an embroidered saddle on a jackass. Remember when only female failures married when career success eluded them? Anarchists’ dolls don’t expand into motherhood. They’re squeezed into silver plated girdles where the only private space is a purse.