The world was sure to always remind me I didn’t fit. If I hooked up with a girl, I was straight, but if I dated a guy, I was gay. If I wanted sex to be rough, I was violent. If I wanted to choose my own family and build relationships in my own way, I was perverted. If I wanted to defend myself, to stand up to those who would harm me, I was dangerous.
I love the way that Laroux writes Manson, and that they based it on their husband? He must be a hell of a human.
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