‘The world makes no sense. Everything was supposed to be easy. I had a plan. Be polite, be mature, be smart, be observant, be good. And be all of those things to make your dad proud. But he’s not here.

I loved him. So much. Why can’t I cry? Every part of me is sad.

When I was a kid I ran my bike over a pothole near the local skatepark. I flew over the handlebars and skidded down the road. And I cried so much. I remember that. The crying. My salty tears burning my shredded up skin. And calling for my mum. But I didn’t get my mum. I got all the older boys from the skatepark. They laughed so much. I remember that. They called me a pussy, and a faggot, and told me big boys don’t cry. But I was crying. Every part of me was sad. I cried, and cried, until one of them told me to stop crying because no one was coming. And he was right. No one was coming. So I could either keep crying, or I could get up, get it together, and move on with my little eight year old life. Usually that works fine, but not this time. I can’t move on because I can’t cry. I can’t cry because somewhere in me I think crying is for pussies, and faggots. What sort of lesson is that? I really wish I could go back and beat their heads in with their own fucking skateboards. Really just pick one up and hit them over the head with it like—- Bam! Bam! Brains everywhere! And fuck you! Who’s the faggot now?! Then they’d be crying, if they still could. I’m bigger now than they were then, so it wouldn’t take much. Probably just one or two hits. I’d do it if I could.

I wonder where those boys are now? Dead, I hope.

I wish my dad was here. He would have taught me a better lesson than that.

You know, I always thought I was special. Different. I’m smart, and they’re not.

That used to be enough for me.’