I won't cross these streets until you hold my hand

I couldn't believe she was gone. Nor, the fact that Sasuke was a arrogant ass...And a good kisser. My mom died and not one word of comfort escaped from his perfect lips.

"The limo's here." Sasuke said.

I got in and nothing more was discussed. Sasuke looked out the window and ignored me. What was he thinking about? Was he mad at me? I yelled at him. What is going on in that brain of his?

I narrowed it down to two options:

'KILL! MUST KILL SAKURA! SHE LIED ABOUT THE CARD CAPTOR SAKURA BOOKS AND YELLED AT ME! KILL!'

Or, from the mind of a horny 14 year old:

'Masturbate...Masturbate...MUST ignore Sakura so I can go home and masturbate...'

Or what if he just doesn't like me or what if... I'm a terrible daughter. My mom was murdered and I'm worrying about Sasuke. I hate this. He's everything to me. It's so pathetic. I don't even really know him. He's just some guy I worship because I think he's hot.

We finally arrived at our apartments and I don't know why but I couldn't stop crying.

"Goodnight" was all he said. And he left me in the front of my apartment. With the girl who was in ragged jeans with holes, an "I Love Elvis" shirt, and a purple sequined military jacket paired with a patent leather messenger bag. And flip-flops.

Isn't that what Anna Wintour wore on her wedding day? But I didn't have the heart to point that out to her. The tears kept on coming and it seemed like the words kept getting stuck in my throat.

So here I am, trying to get my shit together; pampering my body by eating a lot of chocolate and pampering my brain by reading a article on mascara. Two hours later my shit was NOT together, and I felt fat, mother-less, but well informed about mascara. Which is a plus.

I hate what he does to me.

I don't like what I'm writing. Someone please give me a little constructive criticism. It would help. I love you all. Anyway, I thought this might be good time to address something I need to get out to the world; Ashlee Simpson this is to you if you are reading this.

Dear Ashlee,

I want you to know that I don't really think you're all that bad. I would exhibit the same propensity for manly bravado too if I was the daughter of the creepiest freaking person ever. I did sign the Stop Ashlee petition, however, and thank Christian for pointing it out, because, sometimes, I just have the urge to jettison you into a river of magma and shit. But I must say, I applaud your courageous approach to style. I don't like it, you can't dress yourself, but I like the fact that you're so unafraid- it takes solid nads to wear everything in your wardrobe at once. I thought it was especially daring when you wore those argyle golf pants with that sweater vest- be careful, though, doll. Pants that tight can give you nasty yeast infections.

Ashlee, keep goin' on. But please, stop singing. And hire a stylist. Because YOU are the reason North Korea's gonna nuke our asses.

Love and pitchforks,

Asian One