I won't go down by myself, I'll go down with my friends.
If I hated you, you're sort of why I'm writing this. If I liked you, you're still probably why I'm writing this.
I hated the way that everyone assumed I was stupid and incapable of anything because I was tiny.
I hated the fact that I was judged so severely on my appearance. Pick on the short punk kid, why not.
I hated the fact that I knew how amazing it felt to slice open my skin and feel the ruby-red liquid slowly pour out.
I hated the fact that I liked the taste of pouring wine down my throat.
I hated knowing that nobody even liked me.
I hear you screaming at me, "DON'T DO IT, YOU'LL KILL YOURSELF!!"
Well, that was the intention, genius. You're not really that dim, are you?
I liked that I could always find somewhere to hide.
I liked coffee.
I liked my friends.
I liked my family.
I liked music.
I liked a boy.
I'm confused as to that last bit. I liked a boy and loved a girl. I loved a girl and liked a boy. His eyes were what got me. They were like my own personal drug, mine for the taking. But he never let me close enough to make a decent friendship with him. I used to talk to him but after he called me a no-good, lying whore I decided to end it.
I tried to drown myself in the school pool but teacher kept bringing me back up, hugging me. It's incredibly awkward, if it's ever happened to you. I did gulp alcohol down but since vodka is disgusting, wine was my weapon.
So, I better stop rambling and get on to, y'know, the whole leaving this body thing.
So long and goodnight, motherfuckers.
And if he or she ever get to see this, tell her I loved her but I loved him even more.
-Frank and Claire, because this is my note too.
A/N: NOT DYING MOTHERFUCKERS.