Something's wrong. I can feel it...not depression but just an infantile desire to tear myself apart...and live through it. The growing preoccupation with food, the unplanned stops at a store to drop a hundred bucks on items of clothing I don't even need...holding it in my hand with a smile on my face, while I contemplate the shallowness of a creature deriving pleasure via retail.

I lie when you ask me, I say that nothing's wrong, anything to get your goddamn hands off of me. Thank God my tear ducts weren't working that night, I'd never be able to get you away from me. Why do people act so concerned with cleaning up a mess when the best thing they could have done was not break the thing in the first place?

You silly girl, you think your feelings matter?
You thought your body belonged to you?
You think you have something to offer?
Did you actually think you're special?

Just another warm body, 97.1 degrees, blood pressure 100/70, staring angrily at the sky because the moon is too bright and washes out all the stars.