“ Are you ready?” I ask myself,” Are you?”

“ This story is falling apart already, huh?” said I to I. Myself didn’t respond. Pretty sad when your own self doesn’t answer. Sometimes I wonder about the condition of my mental health, but oh well, like any goddamn being cares. They’ll laugh at my misery and these bony fingers of mine will keep writing. I remember a time when somebody told me being high was the most sexually explicit moment of his life, then again he was just a rapist. ’sigh’, wish that my girlfriend lived next to me, but she’s on a adventure trying to find out who she is, ugh, what a adolescent thing. I already know who I am. You don’t see me going to Tibet trying to convince some cue-ball of a monk to tell me the meaning of who I am. “ You’re miserable… Kill yourself,” myself said to me. Really wish I had the will to go for it, but I’m weak.

Listen carefully: I met the guy who made me up. Yeah, it’s pretty odd, but he is a man who is getting sick of life because he can’t find peace. It be pretty funny if the Teen Ink people actually thought the writer was sick, but he ain’t. I talk to the writer a lot cause he’s so damn wise. A sad thing about him is that he doesn’t hate humanity, he just hates how ignorant everybody is becoming. Even the greatest living writers ( Stephenie Meyer sorry, but you’re terrible and don’t count…. Hey, I saw those grammar errors in your book and you thought you were cool) are starting to fall in the horrible curse of ignorance, then again my horrible creator too is falling into the never ending hole, but oh well. The writer also is sick of show off writers whose thoughts are infected with a sickly pride. “ Maybe you and the writer should form a religion and trick a bunch teens and then kill each other with poisoned punch,” myself recommended to me. It is really interesting to talk to you though. My creator is such a bore. Complaining about religion this and 2012 isn’t real that. Much better with you. You never interrupt my conversation. Sometimes I wonder if I’m real and you’re the world I imagine and wrote about. Maybe I shouldn’t think like that. “ Are you ready?” I ask myself,” Are you?”