I could never smile. It pains my face. When the situation asks for a smile, I couldn't move the corners of my lips; they feel tight and shivery like a paralytic's. It feels as though I have stitches etched on my cheeks like a knifed vandalism on the sad, calloused skin of a tree. My teeth, they morph into hideous twists of black thorns. Smile is so foreign.

Today, the literary section had a pictorial for the Shades of Gray literary folio. I was a witch: figuratively and literally. A witch, I am, for these burgeoning geniuses with my red pen and strict orders. Today, I was literally a witch to them clad in my goth dress with a stupid, halloween devil's horns propped up on my silly head. D.A. held a cross to his chest as a mockery.

This day is sad. The couch is inviting me to a slumber; yet a brief 'wonkamobile' trip to that surreal utopia.