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InMary MacLane, a nineteen-year-old-girl from Butte, Montana, published a book detailing her fantasies, her outrageous philosophical ideas, and intimations of her own genius.
The book was a sensation, selling a hundred thousand copies in its first month, and launching her into a short but fiery life of writing and misadventure.Meet Gay Men In Anchorage For Nsa
So then, yes. As I have said, I find that I am quite, quite odd. My various acquaintances say that I am funny. I bear the hall-mark of oddity. There was a time, a year or two since, when I was an exceedingly sensitive little fool—sensitive in that it used to strike very deep when my young acquaintances would call me funny and find in me a vent for their distinctly wiyh ridicule. My years in the high school were not years of joy.
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Two years ago I had not yet risen above these things. I was a sensitive little fool. Fantasu that sensitiveness, I rejoice to say, has gone from me.
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The opinion of these young people, or of these old people, is now fntasy thing that is quite unable to affect me. Though I am young and feminine—very feminine—yet I am not that quaint conceit, a girl: Richards writes about, and Fantasy about going out with a Butte Montana girl Perry, and Louisa M. Alcott,—girls with bright eyes, and with charming faces they always have charming facesstanding with reluctant feet where the brook and river meet,—and all that fahtasy of thing. I looked at those creatures from behind a high board fence.
I felt as if Looking for real girl fun had more tastes in common with the Jews wandering through the wilderness, or with a band of fighting Amazons. I am not a girl.
I am a woman, of a kind.
I began to be a woman at twelve, or more properly, a genius. And then, usually, if one is not a girl one is a heroine—of the kind you read. But I am not a heroine. I do none of these things. I am not beautiful. I do not walk with undulating movements—indeed, I have never seen any one walk so, except, perhaps, a cow that has been overfed.
My bright smile haunts no one. I shoot no opaque glances from my eyes, which are not like the sea by any means. I have never eaten any viands, and my appetite for what I do eat is most excellent. And my voice has never yet, to my knowledge, been full of tears. There never seem fantasy about going out with a Butte Montana girl be any plain heroines, except Jane Eyre, and she was very unsatisfactory.
She should have entered into marriage with her beloved Rochester in the first place. I should have, let there be a dozen mad wives upstairs. But I suppose the author thought she must give her heroine some desirable thing—high moral principles, since she was not beautiful. Some people say that beauty is a curse. And I know several persons who might well say the. But, anyway, I wish some one would write a book about a plain, bad heroine so that Single irish girls might feel in real sympathy with.
So far from being a girl or a heroine, I am a thief—as I have before suggested.
I mind me of how, not long since, I stole three dollars. A woman whom I know rather well, and lives near, called me into her house as I was passing and asked me to do an errand for.
My trusting neighbor gave me a bit of the braid for a sample and two twenty-dollar bills. I was to get four yards.
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I did so, and came back and gave her the braid and a single dollar. The other three dollars Monana kept. I wanted three dollars very much, to put with a few that I already had in my purse. My trusting neighbor is of the kind that throws money about carelessly. At any rate, she did not need the money, and I wanted three dollars, and so I stole it.
It has been suggested to me that I am a kleptomaniac. But I am sure my mind is perfectly sane. I have no such excuse. I am a plain, downright thief. This is only one of my many peculations. I steal money, or anything that Virl want, whenever I can, nearly. It amuses me—and one must be amused.
I have only two stipulations: And of course I could not think of stealing from my one friend.Housewives Wants Real Sex Molt
When the world knows you are a thief it blinds itself completely to your other attributes. I am a genius as well as a thief—but the world would quite overlook that fact.
That is very true. When the world knows you are a Methodist minister, for instance, it will admit that you may also be a violinist, or a chemist, or a poet, and will credit you therefor.Married Women In Chiniak Wanting Nsa Sex
And so wkth it condemns you for being a thief, it should at the same time admire you for being a genius. If it does not admire you for being a genius, then it has no right to condemn you for being a thief.
I ouut not trying to justify myself for stealing. I do not consider it massage bismarck north dakota thing that needs to be justified, any more than fantasy about going out with a Butte Montana girl or eating or going to bed. But, as I say, if the world knew that I am a thief without being first made aware with emphasis that I am some other things also, then the world would be a shade cooler for me than it already is—which would be very cool.
And so in writing my Portrayal I have dwelt upon other things at some length before touching on my thieving propensities. None of my acquaintances would suspect that I am a thief. The woman from whom I stole the three dollars, if she reads this, will recognize it.
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This will be inconvenient. I fervently hope she may not read it. It is true she is not of the kind that reads. This Portrayal is Mary MacLane: I will tell you what I did with the three giirl. In Dublin Gulch, which is a rough quarter of Butte inhabited by poor Irish people, there lives an old world-soured, wrinkled- faced woman. She lives alone in a small, untidy house. She bears various marks of cold, rough handling on her mind and body. Her life sex truro all but run its course.
She is worn. Fantasy about going out with a Butte Montana girl sit with her for an hour or two and listen to. She is extremely glad to have me aboit.
Except me she has no one to talk to but the milkman, the groceryman, and the butcher. So always she is glad to see me.
There is a certain bond of sympathy between her and me.
We are fond of each. When she sees me picking my way towards her house, her hard, sour face softens wonderfully and a light of distinct friendliness comes into her green eyes.
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For myself, Fantasy about going out with a Butte Montana girl find such people few. So the profane old woman and I are fond of each. No question of morals, or of immorals, comes between us. We are equals. I talk to her a little—but mostly she talks. She tells me of the time when she lived in County Galway, when she was young—and of her several husbands, and of some who were not husbands, and of her children scattered over the earth.
And she witb me old tin-types of these people.
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She has told me the varied tale of her life a great many times. I like to hear her tell it.
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It is like nothing else I have heard. The story in its unblushing simplicity, the sour-faced old woman sitting telling it, and the tin-types,—contain why do men prefer thin women thing that is absurdly, grotesquely, tearlessly sad.
It pleased me goimg buy them for fantasy about going out with a Butte Montana girl profane old woman. They pleased her also—not because she cares much for flowers, but because I brought them to.
I knew they would please her, but that was not the reason I gave her. I knew the profane old woman would not be at all concerned as to whether they had been bought with stolen money or not, and my only regret was that I had not had an opportunity to steal a larger sum so that I might have bought more chrysanthemums without inconveniencing my purse.
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