In 25 years I’ll be old. Ancient. Almost 40. My dad’s not even that old yet, and what does he have to show for his life? A big fat nothing. Except me, I guess. It’s hard for me to see what I’ll be doing then, because I can hardly see what I should be doing now.

I hope I’ll be far away from here. I hope that the people I’ll be with are people I haven’t met yet. My friends now are okay, but what do they really know about me? I just want someone I can tell things to. Someone who won’t laugh at the stuffed dog on my bed, like Tim did. (My mom gave me that dog the day she left.) Someone who will let me borrow a skateboard, instead of leaving me behind, like Tyler. Even someone better than Ben, my best friend, because it always feels like he’s hiding something from me. I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO HEAR ME! Because no one has listened for so long.

But, whatever. In 25 years I’ll have a mansion with a Playboy bunny wife and ten cars. I’ll be a billionaire and perfectly happy. Isn’t that what you really want to hear?