I can't write. I can't describe stuff poetically, pretty unusual words piled up (though actually quite carefully arranged) with an exquisite green tortoiseshell comb poked in (artlessly?) at the top.

Now you say—that was quite a pretty turn of phrase you had there. I'm sure you can do it! Don't have to give up hope(, beta)!

And I say, yeah maybe. But I'm a content girl, not one of those floozy (or pansy) form whores. The Real Stuff, that's what I'm after. Screw you, MBA-ed world with Pretentious Artist Soul.

I can write, you dryly note, these Wollstonecraft rants which say nothing new, and not very amusingly either.

This is true. And I spend an awful lot of my time agreeing to this sort of thing

Because I can. I spend a similar lot of time not laboring for my Right to Disagree with it

— in a positive, constructive sort of way, of course. But

I do not dare, I do not dare

to waste a lovely green comb

stuffed awkwardly

into my long, dry hair.