Destined to be terrible at making plot decisions and spinning my characters in the endless vortex of nothingness, I moved away from short stories and fiction.

My first real personal essay was written for a high school English class. It was a memoir about nearly failing my English course the previous year due to depression. (what, and angsty, depressed teenage girl? never.) I hope there’s a copy somewhere for posterity. I remember describing the pink bathroom and my blue wrist.

Revelation of a Can

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