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My name is not important.

Neither is my race or creed.

What is important is that I would like to share something with you.

I think I may be in love. At least I think that is the term I should be using. I want to be around her as much as I can. I want to hear her voice whenever she speaks. I want to be there whenever she needs a hug or shoulder to cry on. Yes. I believe I am in love with her.

Her name is Quinn Morgendorffer.

And yet as close as I get to her every day I cannot have her.

I am close enough to hear her sweet voice. I even find myself close enough to reach out and touch her. Sometimes I get lucky enough to be close enough to feel her breath on my body and I cannot physically direct myself further.

I want to be closer. I want to let her know how I feel.

I believe I am in hell.

I watch her from where I stand as she conquers and falls in matters that do not really interest me. I watch her make and receive phone calls from so many hopeful suitors and never take a place in line. I witness her family balance between oblivion and something only slightly better with her mother's constant absence and do nothing.

Yes. I think this is what one might call hell.

To feel her body against mine is something I may never experience and yet I cannot bring myself to abandon this one wish.

You must think that I'm a creep. You probably place me in the same category as that Upchuck fellow. Here I am confessing to wanting this girl from a completely different world and that I'm in her house all the time.

Well screw you. I'm the plant standing next the kitchen table; and I don't care what you think about me.

You're the one listening to a plant with a very limited grasp on social graces; a plant who is stricken to the point where fully detailing desire and desperation is difficult and depressing.

Weirdo.