The warm breeze sifted through my hair; the winding carrying my long mane of curls behind me. I try to let everything go – the annoying teachers’ lectures at school, the boys – tonight, it was just me, my Dad’s old BMW convertible, and an old Counting Crows CD. The music sinks into my eardrums, the rhythm on repeat in my head. The words of the music leak out of my mouth instantly, like it’s second nature. Well, singing along to Counting Crows really is second nature to me.

The sun streaks down into my green eyes, making me slide on my cheap sunglasses. The hinge was already broken, making them slightly uncomfortable. I mean, what did you except from the spinning rack at the front of Wal-Mart? All that really matter was they kept me from going blind. I didn’t need the fancy s***.

Track two ends, sending the stereo into playing my favorite song on the album. I begin singing the words as loud as I can – not giving a f*** about what people might think. Actually, it wasn’t as much people as birds – who the hell goes to this part of California? The scenery is absolutely gorgeous, but I’ve seen maybe two other cars, and both of those were people who couldn’t speak English asking for directions. It was actually better when there weren’t a bunch of jerks thinking they own the road.

Sometimes I’ll just drive this route to clear my mind. And if not clear my mind, maybe run through it over and over again, crying, thinking about what a freaking mess I am. My parents always tell me to do something useful with my life. I’m a seventeen year old girl who’s president of the school newspaper, not some forty and alone drunk. And, who were they to talk? My parents both were born f*ing rich, never had to lift a finger. My Dad had a different tutor for every subject all throughout high school. Yet my parents say that I can’t have my education delivered straight to my door.

“You need to be in a social environment,” Dad says, “you’re not the type of kid who can work solo.” What was that supposed to mean? And I’m not even the most social person in the world – I have maybe two friends. One who I’m pretty sure is pregnant… honestly, who is “sick” for five straight months during their junior year of high school? She seems to be well enough to be tweeting every five seconds. I’m her best friend, why won’t she just tell me. Ugh… why do people have to be so irritating?

Well, you know what? F*** Dad and his perfect education. F*** Macy and her secret love child. I would be fine all by myself, as long as I got some more Counting Crow CDs.

Okay, fine, I’ll probably need pop tarts. I don’t think I can live with out pop tarts.