Several years ago I subscribed to a list that sent me a daily email reminding me of important historical events in the world of literature. On February 25, 2007, the feature was about the first meeting of poets Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. I printed out the story of how she bit his lip so hard she drew blood and scribbled a note on the back: "If only we could all have this level of passion in our lives." Then I passed it on to my dear friend, Nadia , who laughed. I just remember wishing I could experience that level of intensity in my life...an uncontrollable urge...an irresistible craving. How often have I denied the level of depth so blatantly obvious in these eyes? Unfortunately, it's not possible to experience that type of passion when you restrain your emotions with the equivalent of a Victorian-era corset. For some reason completely known to me after years of therapy, I feel the need to present the facade of the cool girl at all times. She's my superhero