I wrote this when I heard that Anna Nicole Smith had died . . . which explains the weirdness of it. It's pretty fucking angsty, even for me.

Review por favor!

EXPLODE

People are fake, especially after tragic events. They'll come up to you, say how sorry they are for your loss, and promise to listen to your problems and help you out. Two weeks later you find out that they were talking about how they knew you were a freak all along, how Emo you are, and how you whine all of the time about your problems. These are the people who have talked about you behind your back since third grade. You find out after a while that they are just scared because your life has turned into a really cheap horror flick and they think that means you'll explode or something.

You stop in your monologue and wonder if you sound bitter. You can't help yourself, though. You never did think she'd actually go through with it. She had been complaining for years about how hard life was, how she just wished she could die, and she had been cutting, but you always figured that was due to the glorification of the matter in music and other forms of media. The girl had always been a robot - not a thought in her head was her own. So, when she told you she was going to do it, you coldly told her to just shut up and do it then.

You didn't think she'd take it literally.

But you know that a good friend wouldn't have said something like that to her anyway.

You wonder what it's like to not feel for years, to have other thoughts transplanted into your head, and then to finally feel and think like a big girl right before you go. You wonder about that a lot, actually. You wonder if she ever considered how stupid, how selfish she was in that one minute. You wonder if she ever realized how bad of a best friend you were for just letting her kill herself.

Some people are real after tragic events, although their realness isn't always appreciated. They'll come up to you, friends cheering them on from the background, and with a bold look they'll say how sorry they are for your loss but they were wondering about something. You'll look at them for a minute, mutter all right, and then the friends in the background will go quiet. The bold one will be serious and ask you what it's like to watch someone die. That's when you say that blood has a habit of splattering all over bedrooms and that your Twenty backpack will never look the same. They'll get grossed out, and you'll laugh in their face because you had been a big freak all along. Your friend didn't shoot herself. She would've thought that tacky. She overdosed in her room, all alone. You didn't even watch the girl die. But now that everyone thinks that your life is a cheap horror flick, you just have an excuse to explode.