I am not falling apart. I am being ripped at the seams, my insides torn out until I am hollow.

They are all innocent until proven guilty. But not me. I am a liar until I am proven honest.

My body is not my own any more. They have stamped their names all over it.

Why, isabel? Why are you doing this to yourself? To your body?'
And why are you doing this to me? is the awful, selfish thought that is left unsaid.
'Because I can,' she answers, and I shiver as she unconsciously echoes chastity-ruth.
'But-'
'Because it's my body,' she cuts in. 'Isn't it?

When working with the Universal Laws you are working with the laws of manifestation, not instant gratification ...

Torkie Macleod has always regarded himself as a realist. He doesn’t believe in life after death or divine reward or resurrection. He doesn’t even believe in leaving a legacy, insofar as anything of that nature, good or bad, is completely insignificant to the one who is dead. Torkie’s pragmatic philosophy has always been to make the most of his limited time alive, which for him means not striving for fame or riches, not ticking off a list of famous destinations, not indulging in any death-defying feats, and certainly not raising a family to “carry on his name.” to Torkie Macleod, realist, life means making decent money with limited effort, hanging around with cool people, not being bossed around by anyone, and ingesting any mind-altering substance he chooses without a scintilla of shame or regret.