I'd try to stuff myself into one of these scenarios, but it's like wearing a size five sneaker when your foot is a seven--you can get by for a few steps, and then you sit down and pull off the shoe because it just plain hurts too much.

I pick up a pen and start to unscrew the whole thing, pull out the skinny little tube of blue ink. It would be so cool to have one of these built inside you, like a squid; you could point your finger and leave your mark on anything you wanted.

As she gets sicker, she fades a little more, until I am afraid one day I will wake up and not be able to see her at all.

I find myself staring at the goldfish. Bright as a penny, he swims in circles, happy to be going nowhere.

Don't say it. Don't say nobody's going to stare at me, because they will. Don't tell me it doesn't matter because it does. And don't tell me I look fine because that's a lie. I'm a freak, Mom. Look at me.

With my heart racing, I ran in the other direction; leaving the rest of this rescue to people who actually want to be heroes.