Five minutes ago I sat down to write my life story.
Only, it wasn't five minutes ago and it wasn't my life. It is the life of the woman who wears my skin. She's sort of a bitch, distant and mean.
She closes herself off and shuts others out. She makes up stories in her head, and the people in her brain never act the way she wants them to.
She never acts the way she wants to. She doesn't know how, and watching her try to learn is like watching a small child try to turn a screw with a hammer.