Her life was short and tender, like a rosebud in the midst of a freezing dead winter cold, just waiting to bloom. Its sacred and precious leaf's like a distant dream, floating below the surface. Like a childlike porcelain figurine she danced through the fields of happiness and tiptoed out of sight and when the summer faded, as did the rose.
If you are reading this and have absolutely no idea who Jenny Schecter was, then let me give you some insight. All of the above is complete and utter crap.