Dear Mrs. Plath


Remember that time when I thought I could write poetry? That was fun.

Well, we may have more in common than we thought. They call it electroconvulsive therapy now. You’d know that if you were still alive.

My doctor wants me to get evaluated to see if I’m a good candidate. Makes me a bit nervous. I know you were.

I’ll let you know what happens.

About me

I am great.
This entry was posted in Death, Nonsense, plath, Stress, Suicide and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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