Without her she gets made, a kind of other, malformation of sex. She needs persona and identity of her own. What does she make of herself, of this lot? Out of these forms of hers. She must build herself.
Character of mist that makes you feel cold inside. Her reputation precedes her, irregular person, despicable. She is what you heard, you think. What you made of her in your mind via your and other people’s speech. Isn’t she. Talk works like clay. Story of her could be continued in this way unless she would not act for her defense. Get that clay into her own hands. She needs herself to oppose, resist and defend herself. Nobody else does it. Nobody else is interested in her life. Her life what it really is, what she really is like and able to do. Her reality is not interesting to anybody but herself, she lives it, not you and makes it interesting. She makes her life even there is discouragement, contempt, laughter, ill talk, threat, there is so little faith in her that it is unbelievable and unbearable. To accept passively what goes on and on, because others accept it, it suits them and they say there is nothing one can do, for her it is not an option. That is her exceptional quality, active resistance, energy of hers.
Evaluations, descriptions, adjectives, measurements and comparisons, faults, flaws, drawbacks. Qualities we need. Qualities we have made us and what are they worth, how do qualities change. We imagine, make, consume and refine ourselves.
She is not right. Characteristics that is stated as a fact without further evidence than hearsay. Demonizing her to people who listen. Who asked about her. Without her she gets made. As if she died. Character of mist that makes you feel cold inside. Is this the same world we inhabit? You speak of me, but you do not confront me nor speak to me. How little respect there is, how little trust. She is what you heard as a fact. To think otherwise would be unthinkable. Thinkable pleasure, envious joy of dragging her down speaks mountains. She is not right.
She is not right. To kill is to entertain. It is to better yourself. To paint a picture of malicious woman is to draw a separating line. Pointing her out from above, from a distance, from acclaimed perfection, from accepted shameless perfection undeniable.
To know her is to say what she is. She is loud, she is noisy, she is quiet, she is broken, she is tense, she is irrational, she is shameless, she is lost, she is dead.