Call It Crazy, Or Just Chicken Salad.

As If At The Age Of Eighteen Life Already Sucked Beyond Any Hope Of Improvement.

Lifestyle Is An Terrible, Unpleasant Put To Not Have A Very Finest Buddy.

He Doesn’t Love Me. He Might Still Love Me As I Was At Fifteen, When I Didn’t Know Any Better. When I Trusted Everyone. I’m Not That Person Any More. He’s Just A Boy. He Was The First To Really Hurt Me, But He’s Just A Boy. There Were A Lot Of Them.

That Was The Thing About Being Alone, In Theory Or In Principle. Whatever Happened - Good, Bad, Or Anywhere In Between - It Was Always, If Nothing Else, All Your Own.

In My Group Of Friends, I Was Always The One Who Remembered Everything. The Stories, The Boys My Friends And I Dated, All The Details. So I Think A Part Of Me Was Always Filing Them Away, Although At The Time I Wasn't Sure Why.