Put them in a tree museum

I wish I could divide myself in two, that the long-dormant, rational, responsible Elisha Marjorie (who, nowadays, makes herself known in more frequent episodes of guilty depression / depressive guilt) could run around and do papers and reports and oral exams and portfolios, without needing to weedle for higher grades 'cause she done good, baby . . .

. . . while emo-perky Sasha with her curls in pigtails could raise the middle finger while she lies ensconced in he imaginary um-friend's bedsheets, a trashy novel in one hand, Pringkes and lethal mentoses juggled in the other. With the power to sleep whenever she feels like it, which is almost always, without Miss Sensible Elisha Marjorie doing oh-so-sensible cartwheel-rages in her head, as way of guilt trip, which is often always.

Oh my, the little conundrums in my miserable non-life.