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And while rain slides unseen down the pane of glass in front of me I leaf through old copies of British GQ. Half glances at the relevant and now irrelevant pieces, eyes fixed on the faux creations of airbrushed masculinity and femininity at their most horrifically beautiful.

Each page hurts a little. Because the short lived almost coma-like period of half liking myself ended before it quite began and I don’t know what to do anymore.

So I pop a Xanax, book a consultation and watch Janice Dickinson’s Modelling Agency reruns until sleep takes me.