I wondered if hurdlers ever thought, you know, "This would go faster if we just got rid of the hurdles.

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.

Whatever you do, don’t feel sorry for me. I know it’s the best you can do. Life hasn’t hit you in your perfect little bubble yet. Please don’t try to understand. Nobody can. No one knows what it’s like to be me, except others like me. You’re making me pissed. You’re making me feel bad. Stop reminding me that I have no life. I don’t care about your prom. Yes, I know I haven’t talked to you in a while. NO, I’m not ignoring you, but it’s not exactly like you’ve been calling me either. I just haven’t been feeling well lately. I’m tired and my body is aching all over. It’s hurting all the time. I can barely move when it rains, and some days I just don’t want to do anything. SHUT UP.

And when desperation leads you into a rotting pit of self-inflicted torture, you are left with nothing but the acknowledgment that desperation played you for a fool.