I knew right then and there nothing was ever going to change. It wouldn't matter if I was tall or short or fat or thin or absent every day. I was a loser from birth.

Like anyone cared where I was, or who I was.

His invitation lingers. So does my question. Why me? I don't know the answer. When I look at myself in the mirror, all I see is a starving, stunted bird who never grew wings and lost all reason to sing.

Miracles don't happen. You make them happen. They're not wishes or dreams or candles on a cake. They're not impossible. Reality is real. It's totally and completely under my control.

Why are people so cruel? What did I ever do to them?

I want to tell them, "Chip, Kim, there is no way to suicide-proof a person.

Your failures and your faults, they stick with you. They glob into ugly, cancerous growths inside you and make you want to die.