Talking with a friend today about this lady we know of who recently took her life. I asked what she did for a living because some careers have a high suicide rate. He didn’t know, but asked me if I’d looked her up on Facebook. I hadn’t. “She looks….kinda…different. Like a writer. You know?” I thought immediately of my hair, springing out all over my head in 16 million directions. I thought of my eyeliner, that I’ve never managed to conquer, and even if it looks decent when I leave the house manages to be smudged by the time I get to work. I thought of my glasses, that are perpetually spotted from who knows what. I thought of my clothes, how some days my pants are dragging the ground or my socks are inside out or I’ve wound up wearing two different shoes. Or earrings. “Yes, I know,” I replied dryly, flipping my hand to indicate my current appearance. “WAS she a writer?” “Well, no,” he backpedaled. “Well, I don’t think so. But, like, she just looked…I can’t put it in words.” “Unkept?” “No. Just…plain, I guess. Maybe homely.” “Was she a poet?” “No, I don’t think so.” “Because poets are tortured, you know.” He…