12. April, Mayflower's

Why am I stuck in a corner again? It's slightly degrading and a bit unembarassing. The needle has been stabbed into a vein in my arm. Present are two equally important people that I suppose I'd be wise not to reveal their names here but I'll do better and show their outstanding positions in life. One is a future male Prime Minster, the other a well known male doctor. Quack's in a completed row. Alright, now you assume I should run around downtown with that sociopath, watch him while he take's a shit on the sidewalk in front of a local pub? Am I a drugged fucking dogsitter? We know by now what their answer is. They supply me with the first lethal dose and the sociopath and his temperamental sidekick will do the rest. Oh, I have this easy, don't I? I don't fucking agree!

I was sick as a dog. I was beaten. I had a grand mal seizure after I awoke from my deadly coma in my bedroom, and hey why wasn't I in the hospital? No one wanted me there. I wasn't cool or popular enough. Strange but fucking true.

It can't just be me, but isn't a bedroom a secular private place for any teenage girl? Specifically, me!

Is a somersault in the midst of a terrible and dangerous seizure humorous to you? I bit my tongue all to hell. I lay here, again, and pick myself up the next day and walk away from the scent of their depravity and inhumane meanness.

I picked myself up. It wasn't you.

Compact version only. Real life hurts not quite belonging to any normal string of word's could effectively explain to someone whom care's.