Dear Diary, I am writing in your bullshit pages because my shrink is crazier then I am. He thinks you're therapy. He figures if two babies can hammer me into a Psycho ward, what will I do with this? He is so stupid. He's so stupid that he thinks he pulled me through the breakdown when it was Christy. Always. Only Chris. I was looking through his postcards. Paintings were his obsession. He used art as another way to love me, to help me. To keep us always together.
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