Analysis of Confessions of the Twilight Moon

It began with a solemn gesture, a namesake, but soon the Twilight began to surmount her. I, Princess Garnet of Alexandria of Final Fantasy IX, look like Bella Swan of Twilight merged into the yellow, Final Fantasy Costume worn by the princess of Final Fantasy IX there.
I cosplay; I haggle, I swim with words of my scizhorprenic adventures with Mary Magdelene as my goddess and my keeper, of her towering red hair, and golden blue-green, gray eyes that twinkle like the Sun.
I call myself out by name as Shelina Denise Chapman, then Princess Garnet, Moon, and Isabella Swan to a final fantasy reality in which I am my own maker as the goddess of imaginary light called Twilight Suzuka.
With the use of my imagination and imaginary powers called the Twilight Forest, I claim sanity to this abysmal pit I formed with my Aries ram thought-thinking computer only to bear witness to the downfall of Hesus McCarthy, the legal doctrine Titan-Olympian named Zeus or Zoi Mscree Manchessha, of Mt. Olympus to the death of Hades Pluto by my own writing hands of Destiny and Destiny Doctrine intertwined by my path of destiny and fate of the Dream(s).
I have no sympathy-- I do, I just know better, and I am quiet. I have barely spoken for over 15 years since I first started writing and relieving these adventures to my Cloud Strife, Cloud Reeve executive office, and officers of written and writing doctrine of the English Language of Twilight Sakura, a sedative for my own well-orientated and in-doctrine destiny of Cardcaptors or Cardcaptor Sakura
I keep a Silent Language housed among the fairies and elves called the Animal World as my tongue lives the rules of my Uncle Pluto's laws never saying a word about what happens there.
I see phantoms and images of the past, present, a future cinemas form which I may or may not have seen over television from video games to commercials fill my mind every now and then, as the scizhorprenia continues to create newer images in the form of Ah! My Goddess, Belldandy for me to exist as the false face of Prophet Muhammad.
I imagine newer worlds and newer possibilities while listening to my own attempts to clear my mind of scizhorprenic thought of Neptune to Jupiter's destiny and fates in seeing Pluto die when I am 15 years old by shooting himself in the mouth with a black handgun in front of the goddess of Memory, Mnemosyne.
So far, my Blue Star has parted ways with me and rejected any notion of me completing a series for my Twilight Wars.
All everyone else does is laugh and carry on with their lives constantly trying to see my Native-American, brown-skin as a Vestal Virgin of Virginia, one of the only ones left, I might add, and clearly keep getting feedback from the Dead, to still possess a pure soul.
So no, I've never even kissed a man and I'm over the age of 35. Does that mean I deserve to be THIS perpetual?