Death is a funny thing. Sad and tragic, but hilarious in a sense. To think that I've worked this whole life, the only one I'm given, to in the end give my body back to the earth, is a pretty ridiculous notion.
Thirteen fucking years of my life. For what? To get an official looking piece of paper that says I've accomplished something. I've accomplished nothing but heartache and headaches. No amount of math or history or science will teach me how to love or feel. And what's after? 8 years of college for a hug a pat on the back and a career I never really wanted?
We spend so much time planning how we want to spend our lives and never actually do it. I convince myself that I'm going to be different. Live my life the way I want to even if it upsets everyone else.
But then I remember the way my parents looked at me with big doe eyes and said "we're counting on you."
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