There was no short answer to this; like so much else, it was a long story. But what really makes any story real is knowing someone will hear it. And understand.

Maybe we were all destined to just keep doing the same stupid things, over and over again, never really learning a single thing.

So many versions of just one memory, and yet none of them were right or wrong. Instead, they were all pieces. Only when fitted together, edge to edge, could they even begin to tell the whole story.

I was actually pretty miserable in high school. I couldn't wait for it to be over. And when it finally was, I remember sitting at graduation with all these classmates getting nostalgic and emotional already and all I could think was, "Get me out of here. I never want to see you people again." So it's ironic that I spend half my day putting myself back there by choice [while writing].

I was bored. Sad. Lonely. It was only a matter of time before I cracked.

My books are so tame!

Sometimes. It was a good escape. Until, you know, it wasn‟t.