Lunice Frante

“Come on just think of a stupid fucking metaphor to make those John Green faggots swoon without writing in your own blood again. I don’t feel like choking and being engulfed in waves of pills like I did as a youthful adolescent.”

Lunice Frante, obviously a nickname that stuck over the years that sounded way cooler than the typical female name “Sarah Frante” was slowly gliding back into the fringes of a writer’s block mental breakdown. She had been there several times before. She must had gone through at least a pack of cigarettes already today, as well as bottle of whiskey which burned the cuts in her chapped lips.

Her lungs felt as if they were gradually decaying and floating away to another dimension. Sh...

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