She's the type of girl who would be gorgeous, if she weren't so damn ugly. Goldie locks on the outside, Attila the Hun on the in. She aborted Catholicism at age nine, had to stop those pesky saints from setting up shop. Drank the holy water so she could piss it out. Glued rice to communion bread and fed it to nearby birds. Someone had to do the unimportant dirty work. Now she stands at a proverbial crossroad: My life or my child's? and she gazes to the heavens for an inkling of help.
