If the one who gave me life wants the real me to die... then all I can do is die.

What do you want to do with your life, then?” is often the question I'm asked.

To be honest, I don't know. I really don't.

Mainly because I don't see myself living long enough for that to make much of a difference.

I'm trying to let him know what I'm about to do.
I'm hoping he can save me, even though I realize he can't.

And it occurred to me; I was not part of the action. Oh God, I thought, I'm not an anthropologist. I'm the lonely voice-over narrator of adolescence. The bitter, voice-over voice.

I swear, you are the only person I know who makes decisions based on what will provide the best material for a diary.

I’m not the damsel in distress. I’m the villain. It’s only a matter of time before he realizes this.