Matchbooks

Every reformed firebug has her closet of spent matchbooks.

(Ok, just grant me some poetic license here. A point is coming.)

And just like Wick Girl up there, I’ve got some nasty reminders lurking behind a few closed doors.

Mental conflagrations, baby.

Anxiety blowouts.

Crash and burns of epic academic nature.

My fires.

And, today, I had to FedEx off all my matchbooks to grad school.

(Um, in other words, my transcripts have been sent.)

I don’t enjoy showing off my burnt nubs.

(Understatement of the year. Just saying.)

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

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