Patient form (to be filled out by counsellor). Strictly confidential.

Full Name: The Count of Monte Cristo.

Age: I should probably make this clear that I'm filling this out as a joke. So, if the novel was finished in 1844, that makes me… 168 years old? Yeah, I don't know. Math was never my thing.

Height: Tall enough to scare everyone in this stupid room. That's what they get for sending me to a counsellor who deals with little kids. Whoever's checking this form, you should know that you're not getting any real information out of me.

Weight: Because let's face it, you already know everything about me. Heck, you probably know more about me than I do. Oh, that Jacob kid, the one who watched his mother slit her own wrists. Yup, he's totally gone around the goddamn bend. Off his rocker. Mad, the poor boy.

Ethnicity: I took up all the space in the last box so I'll write my weight here. Not my real weight, in case you were getting hopeful. Let's say 63 kilos? That's about 140 pounds, for you Americans. As for my ethnicity, I'm not American. In case you hadn't guessed.

Appearance (note scars, tattoos, piercings, birthmarks, etc.): I have no idea why these idiots are asking about my appearance. C'mon man, you have eyes, don't you? Put it this way, though – I totally do not have the cash for tattoos or piercings. If I did, I'd totally be scaring the shit out of everyone here because the rest of me completely fits the whole bad boy image.

Sexual Orientation: If I'm gay, does it take away from the bad boy image? I'm not, by the way. Gay, I mean. Or wait, is the counsellor a homophobe? If he/she is, then yep, I'm gay. I bet that you, whoever's reading this, now thinks I pick fights. I do. But not with

Relationship Status (if taken, name and describe partner): I ran out of space again. I was going to write – not with everyone. Only with people who deserve it. Like dumb counsellors who think I have mental problems. And yeah, me? A partner? Teenage girls shy away from me like I'm a walking positive pregnancy test.

Occupation: Obviously none. Else I wouldn't be a) broke and b) sitting on my ass in some retarded counsellor's office.

Hometown: I just found out that my counsellor was supposed to fill this out. I hope he/she gets annoyed that I've filled it out myself. My answers are much more interesting in any case. Oh, and my hometown? The Count was born God-knows-where, but I suppose I can afford ONE honest answer on this thing. I was born in

Current City: Auckland, New Zealand. Seriously, I don't know whether to be annoyed or relieved at the size of these boxes. I can't finish sentences but on the other hand there's loads of room for bullshit. I'm not even answering this one, by the way. Pretty sure the counsellor can figure that out him/herself.

Parents: I'm not even supposed to be filling this out, but I realised that I have nothing better to do. So I looked back and realised I already gave out some gossip about myself. Safe to say my mum is no longer among the living.

Siblings (If yes, give their names and ages.): None I still talk to. Preppy-ass yuppies, the lot of them.

Favourite Sport: CUTTING MYSELF.

Leisure Activity: No, I'm joking. But you got scared, didn't you? I read in my spare time, duh. How else would I know about the Count of Monte Cristo? Not like I can afford movies.

Favourite Food: Blood.

Favourite Dessert: Blood.

Favourite Drink: Blood.

Favourite Colour: Blood. No wait, that doesn't make sense. Let's do that again. I like any and all food because I don't get much of it, and hey, I'm not picky. Dessert would be banana split. Favourite drink… water. That shit's essential to life!

Favourite Movie: Oh, right, favourite colour. I'd say something cliché like 'black' but that's just weird. It's orange, actually. As for this question - did I not just say I can't afford movies? And the one below too, the one about TV…

Favourite TV Show: That's not to say I was always poor. In fact, my family isn't poor but it's not like I spend loads of time with them. When I was a kid, my all time favourites were Lion King and Dexter's Lab. What do kids even watch these days?

Favourite Music Artist: None, really. I don't listen to music so much as I write it.

Favourite Season: Summer. In winter, I actually have to come home at night. Unless I want to get hypothermia.

Favourite Store: Does it look like I care enough about my appearance to seriously shop?

Likes: Food. Sleep. Blood (kidding). Although blood's important, you know. Carries oxygen and shit. 'Like' doesn't even cover my love of food and sleep though, seeing as I hardly ever come by either of them.

Dislikes: You were probably expecting 'cocaine' to be up there in the 'Likes' section. I'm not a drug addict. I don't even smoke. Not cigarettes, not weed either. Smokers could be up on my dislikes, I guess. Along with IDIOT COUNSELLORS (hint, hint).

Any Additional Comments?

I just realised I wasn't supposed to be answering this seriously. I was supposed to be answering it from the Count of Monte Cristo's point of view. Oh well. I'm tossing this in the trash and getting a new one from the sour-grapes receptionist. Just in time, too. I'm being called in for my interview. Oh – great – the counsellor's some frail-looking chick. I can't be mean to her. I do have a heart. Crap, she's walking this way. Going to have to stop writing in like five minu-

I stuffed the thing into my pocket so I couldn't finish that last sentence. I'm sitting in her office, and she's just staring at me, watching me write. Like she's waiting for me to talk. You're the goddamn counsellor, ask me something generic like, 'Oh, your mother killed herself in the bathtub while you watched? How do you feel about that?'

It would be a moot question though. I don't feel anything right now. Anger, maybe. But that's nothing new. I don't blame my mum for leaving the way she did, either. It would be easy. Like pressing Esc on a school computer. Get out of this window, this shit hole.

If I could, I would, but while living may suck – and I'm trying real hard not to sound too pansy and poetic – nothing's more amazing than life, right? It's ugly as hell and it walks all over you like it did you a favour, but the amazing part is that the next day, you wake up and you're okay. You survive.