I’m tired. Tired of living in this sardine can of a home with its lack of windows, torn curtains, and the smell of dog piss emanating throughout. I’m tired of going through the motions as daughter, sister, and friend when I feel like nothing more than a speck of dust on a window pane ready to be wiped clean away. I’m tired of the snobs and flakes and posers at school who think they’re either better than you, smarter than you, or more pathetic than you and take pride in it. When did we come to strive for depression. The Emo boy and girls with their dark makeup and their skinny jeans brood in the hallways acting as if their blue-collar lives are pure hell while they listen to their iPods, play on their Xboxes, and talk on their cell phones.
They don’t know what it truly is to ache. What it’s like to watch your dad walk out the door and never come back. To watch your mom spend every waking moment with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. To be the sole provider for your family, the mother to your sister. To be mocked and bullied at school because of it all.
And this journal, and the art, it’s not enough anymore. I can’t do it. I’m ready to free fall from life, to plunge into the unknown.
I’m ready to let death take me away from this place. I don’t care what’s waiting for me on the other side. It has to be better than this . . .