This is a story of a heroine, a female picara in the tradition of the male picaro-the rogue, the observer, the tragic cog in the wheel-who has a hard time learning to accept the nature of her drives and energies that propel her own destruction. She cannot let go of something even if it hurts her and settles for a subtle form of abuse surfacing in various co-dependent disguises. On the other hand, she has had a colorful and eventful life that she always narrates to somebody somewhere. Eventually, she got tired of the same stories. So she wrote them down for nothing more than a compelling tale. Perhaps? But maybe she wrote her life so that she would be able to visit her history only as a neutral spectator and not as a suffering patient, eternally shedding her skins.
