At the offices of one of the magazines where I used to work, over the course of several years, we were privileged to receive what can only be described as the periodic ramblings of a girl gone at first charmingly, and then later truly, mad. Her missives often came three times per week, but then long pauses between them would cause us, her readers, consternation. Had she been institutionalized? Jailed? Had she committed suicide over her partial androidism? Other magazine editors out there will surely recognize her prose style and her handwriting in the samples I will share here, but to allow her to retain the dignity she worked so diligently to cast aside, I will call her only by her initials, B.S.

Honestly, those are her initials.