I’m an up and coming young fashion designer in New York City, on the verge of serious success, but all I can think about is blowing my brains out. Or hanging myself like McQueen. Why won’t anybody ask me what’s wrong?
I’m an up and coming young fashion designer in New York City, on the verge of serious success, but all I can think about is blowing my brains out. Or hanging myself like McQueen. Why won’t anybody ask me what’s wrong?