"Love is something that everybody strives for…" The speaker began, her words coming out natural and casually, as if she knew nothing of effort. Everything just came to her insouciantly. "I mean, why else do we spend countless hours feeling so god damned low? Because we want to be able to have those moments of clarity and joy. We want to be needed, more or less. You can't argue with that, simply." She said into the microphone, looking at the audience. All these people were here for her. She tried not to think about it. She was a humble girl. "We feed off of that, every day. There's not a day in our lives that we don't think about being loved." She walked around the stage. "Am I not correct?" People nodded, agreeing that she was true.

The speaker spent days writing. When she was in her younger days, the girl would ride horses and cheerlead. She was a lot different. Her parents blamed her friends but she blamed college. It opened up so many doors and options that she didn't know about. It widened her thinking spectrum. She started with skipping her classes to sneak into literature and philosophy lectures. She shaved her hair, just the sides and kept long bangs that swept over her face, hiding her perfect hazel eyes. She started dressing much different, mostly in black. She traded in her contacts for gigantic glasses and began reading heaps more. The way words swayed together to form opinions, thoughts and stories turned her on like no other. She could get physical pleasure from the text she read. Her toes would curl and her skin would rise in goosebumps at the right phrase. She was unique, that girl.

She began writing and published a few novels before today. Now, she was working on some philosophy of the human heart and mind. The way the heart connected to feelings and the way the mind obsessed and fantasized about someone. She wasn't interested in the science of it, though she loved to throw in random facts here and there. They just helped prove her point.

Her obsession with love started as a young girl and grew into something dark. She was so dark, always. She was completely harsh and intricate. She was so obscure. She'd sit in her dorm for days and write away and listen to old folk music like Jackson Frank. She was involved in herself the whole time and really thought about love. She was in love with herself because she had to be. There was no one else but her. She was… the ideal woman. She explained this in a collection of short stories published during her college days.

Since, the woman has been involved in a few scattered romances with different women. She wasn't always gay, of course not. It was this stage she went through that caused her to dig deep and push up all the evidence of homosexuality building up in her life. Her parents completely dismissed and disowned her. Not that she cared. She'd seen them maybe three times since she moved into her dorm.

For a while, she was depressed and danced around drunkenly while clutching a bottle of wine. She missed school and got kicked out. She never earned her degree and whatever she was trying to earn. She didn't really know, but she could care less. She was homeless for about three months after that and she got a job writing memos for lawyers and other business men. She hated that job more than anything and while working in a publishing company, she cornered one of the employees and demand the man read the short story she'd written just that week. He seemed impressed and published it. It was called Slippery Canvas and was a memoir of her homeless life with a girl she'd met named Sonny whom was an artist and she would paint big murals on buildings. It was graffiti but with a purpose other than claiming a gang's turf.

After the piece was published, it was posted in an issue of the New Yorker and that's when she felt her career was going to take off. Much to her dismay, the publishing company dropped her because the new stuff she began to write was about a rape that had occurred to her one night when she was walking through an alley to get to her apartment in a shorter way than usual. The writing was graphic and harsh and peculiar. They had statements that she, herself hated writing but didn't know how else to cope.

She began to write fiction, though most fiction is based off of someone's reality and she had a hard time writing anything that wasn't a log of her own life. She then kept spiraling down; hitting a deep and dark depression where she couldn't explain the actions she was depositing herself in. She would steal books from wherever she could and rip their pages out and paste them to her wall. She would stay in her apartment and send bullshit pieces to the new publishing company that picked her up. She was embarrassed of that work. She hated it so much. It was demeaning. That wasn't who she was. She would just lie around and drink coffee. She didn't sleep much. She carried such pain in her voice when she would talk back then.

She masturbated often, a few times a day if she was feeling good. She didn't think much about it and ignored it. She read a few more pieces of work and realized that she wasn't involved with anyone. She didn't talk to many people. She talked to her neighbor, Todd from the publishing company and the old lady at the market. They weren't people that she felt were worth her time. The lady at the market liked to tell her stories from when she was a young woman. Her neighbor just notified her of what day it was or when she was headed anywhere, the man seemed to always invite her- she wasn't interested, at all. Conversations with Todd were strictly business, though he tried to discuss things with her. She always dismissed him.

She had terrible back pain from lying around all day. She was stick thin and barely weighed 96 pounds. She was unhealthy and sunken and sick. She was distant, always. She wasn't happy, until now.

She started gaining weight and started smiling when she discovered that she had a heart. She could have someone to love. Someone could love her. She could stop drinking wine and whiskey. She could be confident, maybe.

That's what she did. She fell in love and she fell so fucking hard. She was engulfed by the beauty of the new woman and she loved the way her skin smelt and she loved the way the woman's body was shaped and her smile and her eyes and her hair and her heart. She loved her heart. She gave her all for this woman. She loved her with every fiber of her being. She couldn't breathe without this girl. She couldn't, no, she wouldn't function with her. How could she?

She soon found out, after this gracious and perfect woman left her. She almost fell back into a depressed mess. She started drinking heavily again and cried most hours of the day. She soon got into an obsession with the way she had felt about this girl and why she was so obsessed with her. She started writing only about that, even. It took up her whole being and saved her from depression.

She wrote a book, actually. Her first real book that she was truly proud of. She wrote a book or two while she was with the woman. They were fiction about the couple. How they'd met and fallen in love. After she wrote the new book titled, The Despairing Lover's Perception, she hit it big. It was a best seller and Sara Quin was a household name in the writing world. She had interviews and lectures. She loved it. She ate it up.

"I questioned myself at one point. Why would we let ourselves ever feel this way? I mean, I had hit the lowest of lows. Rock fucking bottom! And I made it out alive. That's my theory. We love to feel sad because we know we have the ability to make it out." She spoke yet again. She spoke the truth, she thinks. "'Why would I want to feel this low, again?' we ask ourselves and feel sick about loving that person. Maybe that person dragged us down because they didn't love us back and we were fooled this whole time. I think about that from time to time. How could someone want to do that to me? Why would anyone get any satisfaction from making a person so low that they are stealing pages from books that they can afford to paste on their wall like some sick freak?" She said a little hesitant. That was her. She was that sick freak. "I know. I've been there. I've pushed myself though and that's what motivated me to write this book." She smiles at the last part. "I want to thank all of you guys from coming out. I'll be happy to answer any questions you may have." As soon as she said it, at least thirty hands shot up. She chuckled to herself, shaking her head and looked around. There was a man with short brunette hair and stubble. She called on him.

"You're a college student." She says with a snort. The guy nodded and blushed. Sara could tell this man found her attractive and it made her laugh a bit more. "What's your question?"

He fumbled, adorably and wringed his hands together. "Actually, I was wondering about your view on suicide over a potential or past lover." She sighed a bit, thinking about all the times she'd come seconds away from killing herself, only she didn't have the guts. She was a coward and she used to punish herself.

"Ah, huh." She thought a bit before answering. "I… My views actually are not what you think. I oppose it, of course, but I know that when you feel that strongly about someone then you need to really think about that person in a different light. I hate to say but… think about their flaws and remind you that you can love again and be loved." The guy smiles but that's not the answer he wants. He writes something down and thanks Sara. She smiles and takes a few more questions.

She thanks everyone and steps off of the stage to sit at the designated desk for her to sign books at. The first person to come up to her is an obscure looking woman with mousy black hair and a pointy, stout nose. She's pretty, despite her dirty appearance. "Hello." The girl says, handing a much worn paperback copy of Sara's book. Sara grins at the girl and signs the book. "I'm glad you've enjoyed my writing." Sara says while the girl thanks her and walks away. The next few people have the same reactions and Sara grows tired of this town's people. They're all the same. Mousy, scared and light.

Once back to the hotel, she can't help but fall into her old habits as she pops open a bottle of scotch and sit back on the bed. She's feeling these waves of depression again, sadly. She's convinced that she's bipolar but she refuses to do anything about it. Sara lays back and cuddles herself into the pillow. She decides the fabric smells of her father and rips the sheets off the bed and throws them out the window. She sits on the dirty mattress and drinks and drinks until she falls asleep.

When she's awoken, her head is pounding and her stomach is rejecting. She feels normal but she tells herself that she won't drink again but she knows that tonight she'll have a second bottle of scotch to herself. And damn right, she'll enjoy the fiery liquid. It's practically noon when she is finished getting ready for the day and heads downstairs. She rushes out the doors past her manager and sneaks into a diner. She sits down and sighs. She looks up from the table and at the waitress. She smiles thankfully and asks for a cup of coffee. The waitress turns and walks away. Sara lets out a breath and opens up her laptop, typing away almost immediately.

Sara doesn't peel her eyes away from the screen when the waitress returns and instead waves her away politely. Her fingers desperately poke at the keys on her laptop and she's interrupted by somebody shutting her computer. Sara gasps and peers up at the woman standing there, a furious look on her face. She groans, eyeing up Betty- her manager. She sighs as she's lectured about showing terrible behavior. Sara rolls her eyes and stands up, grabbing her laptop. "I'm an adult!" Sara screams at Betty and rushes out the door. Her behavior is her own fucking business.

When Sara rushes past a woman, she drops her laptop and it breaks in half. "No!" Sara shrieks, in tears already. She squats down and picks up the busted laptop and looks up at the woman who caused her to do this. "Do you realize what the fuck you just did!?" Sara screams in the short girls face. The screaming doesn't daunt the woman; she stands there with an amused look on her face. "My whole fucking career! You've ruined it, absolutely ruined it!" She cries and begins to break down and weep into her open hands. The girl gazes at Sara. "Sorry." she expresses and squats down next to Sara. "This must suck, yeah?" Sara looks up at her, perplexed. "Are you kidding me?" Sara moans and stands up, picking up the two pieces of her life. The girl spits out her gum. "I'll pay to repair it," Sara doesn't believe her. This woman looks anything but wealthy. "if you have dinner with me." the girl finishes. Sara looks at her, her jaw dropped. "This is how you pick up chicks? Ruin their fucking life and offer dinner?" Sara asked and shook her head about to walk off. The girl grabbed her arm. "Being extremely charming and attractive helps." Sara looked at her and thought about something. Maybe Sara ought to take her own advice for once. Her face softened and she nodded, "Yeah, yeah. It does." The girl grins. "Hi, Sara Quin. I'm the girl of your dreams. XOXO, Tegan Banhart." Sara blushes and thinks for a bit. "Banhart?" Tegan nods and smirks, "Unfortunately, yes."

Tegan Banhart was the daughter of Chris and Mimi Banhart- socialites. Sara couldn't believe she hadn't recognized her. "Deepest apologies." Sara giggles and the pair then exchange numbers and make dinner plans.