August 19th, 2008

5:34 p.m.

Dear Diary,

I hate him.

I hate him.

I HATE GORDO.

I loathe him.

I hope he dies.

I hope Jessica dies.

I wish I could die.

I'm just a ditzy blonde... nobody would ever want to go out with me because I'm so shallow and because I'm going end up a Playboy girl. I'm ugly, I'm stupid, I take everything and everyone for granted, and I am so naive sometimes people want to shoot me. No one likes me, they just pretend to because they feel sorry for me. I'm going end up pregnant before the first month of college. I'm going to work at McDonalds for the rest of my life. I'm slutty, I'm terrible, I'm a self-centered brat. Immature. Fat. I'm a whole bunch of curse words that I won't mention here.

That's what he said. In order. Every single word. I can't stop it; it's like a recording replaying in my head.

I hate my life.

I hate Gordo.

No.

I hate David.

I hate myself.

I hate everything.

I hate you.