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I feel that these authors’ moments of illumination function as signal flares, maybe even distress beacons, telling nearby wanderers to turn around and move in another direction so that they may save themselves. Or maybe not. Either way, I’m not sure if I want to find out. But is it foolish to chalk their deaths up to just another case of the “bad chemicals”?

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Hot suicidal female poets: we all want to sleep with them. They’re like the sexy crazy girls who talk too loud and smoke clove cigarettes and who drink grain alcohol in the back room of the party. Or at least, I personally always want to sleep with these girls. But the question is, how to choose? Which one? Which one?