Y’all cast me as Ophelia.

MAD Ophelia.

So grief stricken that she’d end her own life.

“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember; and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts…
There’s fennel for you, and columbines; there’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end…”

Hamlet knew better. He wrote her a letter.