The story of my life would not be found on paper
For upon hearing such a story your ears would turn inside out
And you would desperately clutch their raw structures in agonizing pain
Blood would endlessly spill from them and drip past your shoulders
Drenching your body in a fresh crimson coat
Pooling around your crumpled body
Like puddles of vermilion rain because
You don’t want to hear this story
It.
Will.
Bore.
You.
To.
Tears.
Or maybe even death.
It will at least leave you dull-eyed, blankly staring
Drool trickling down your chin in a thick, steady line
Because you already know this story
Heard it 90 million times before.
This story.
My story.
You can recite it by heart.
Know it better than your ABC’s some days.
There is nothing you don’t know about this story.
And that’s the whole point of a story, right?
Surprise. Excitement.
Gripping, heart-wrenching, jaw-dropping, climax leading to a
Stunning , shocking resolution that leaves you aching and hungry for more
But that isn’t what my story is about.
You would know.
You know everything about it.
This isn’t new to you.
This story was used and repeated a thousand times before.
You know.
The story about that one girl.
That girl.
The fat girl.
The drab girl.
The ugly girl.
The unnecessary girl.
You know.
That girl.
That boring girl.
The unimaginative one.
The one that doesn’t really matter.
So you wouldn’t notice if she was gone tomorrow.
Even I wouldn’t notice if I was gone tomorrow.
Besides, wouldn’t you choose an unknown eternity over a listless, lackluster, long life?
Because I would.
But then again I don’t really matter.
I’m that one girl.
That one UglyFatBroingStupidWhiteAwkward girl.
So maybe I’ll stick around for another day.
Just maybe.
Then again I don’t know.
But you would.
You know this story, right?