Chronicles of soap

[I want precious, exotic-scented pieces adorned in gold foil and sweet pink chiffon wrap. But that's not what I mean, no.]

I mean, oh, how I should read those desperate housewives-type novella, with the girls who indulge in guilty pleasures and buy $500 shoes just on impulse. I can dream to be seamless.

I'm gonna write a book, I swear, and it's going to make money. Twenty-somethings are gonna drool over what perfume Miss Daniels sprays on her panties, and the tea she spiked will be a best-selling flavor at Starbucks. I can be multi-national if I please. I can make characters with tart, rich lives. I'll put the spice on the rack.

I want everything because it's all about taking.

Yet, it's damp under my eyes at night, from all the giving. The psychological giving. Feeding. Intellect.