I don't know where to begin. I guess a good place would be to tell you that I think I might be a sociopath.

It's not something I am ashamed about. I think being a sociopath helped me deal with some bad life situations, but then again it is the classic chicken and egg dilemma.

When I was twelve, I found my mother, wrist slashed, faced down in our first-floor bathroom tub. It was my first encounter with death and it was pretty much what convinced me that I was a - or might be a emotionless, cold person.

I wasn't scared. I didn't freak out. I just stood there and looked. Stood there until my father came home and saw me there, standing, looking at my mother's dead body.

I didn't cry at the funeral. I loved my mother, although I wasn't quite sure what love was back then. I still doubt I do, but I loved my mother like a daughter supposedly should love her mother, and she loved me or so she said to me every time before I went to bed.

I got counseling after that, which perhaps drove me more towards my disposition.

Hours of Dr. Frank trying to get me to divulge what I felt when I saw my mother's body, how I felt about the situation, made me realized that I truly felt nothing, if only a bit of curiosity and fascination. Curiosity because she could have at least told me why she wanted to kill herself or at least leave a letter, and fascination because I realized dead people, death, and dying fascinated me more than cartoons and dolls ever could.

I found out that I had didn't really care for people earlier on in life. Perhaps when I was six. I didn't particularly care for kids my own age and adults ( who I saw as anyone older than me) seemed ingenuine - as in trying to convince me that they knew more about what was going on, but really didn't.

My grandma from my mom's side died when I was seven. I recalled my mother bursting out in tears over the phone when she heard, before shouting "Mom died! Mom died!". My father went over to comfort her and I didn't know what to do except stand there and watch them.

When I was ten, our family dog died of mysterious circumstances - I swear I didn't kill her. I liked Fluffy. She was a cute golden retriever, who liked to take up space on the living room couch and run up and down our staircase, but when she died I just thought that all we had to do was go back to the pet store and get another one.

When I was sixteen, Mike Dunley and his friends, thought it would be funny to put a rat inside my locker. I killed it by smashing it with my Calculus textbook -In my defense, it was an accident - but I thought it best to return the rat to the person who put it there in the first place; my excuse of going up to Mike in first period and dropping the rat on his desk. I got detention for a week, but nobody messed with me for the rest of high school.

Last summer I fell out of a moving vehicle - or should I say I threw myself out of a moving vehicle.

I wasn't trying to kill myself, I just do reckless things when I am angry, or bored, or sad but I hardly got sad. Or perhaps I just wanted to feel something, anything.

I felt pain, broke my leg and arm, and had to be hospitalized for multiple weeks. I wrote about it in my college essay and apparently it was enlightening enough to get me accepted to Oxford.

"I can't believe you rejected Oxford." Aunt Bernadette was stuffing her face with yet another slice of cream custard cake.

"Deferred." My father countered before I could. "There is a difference."

I resisted the urge to sneer at my aunt and instead continued to pick at the mac and cheese on my plate.

"Alisa will be attending next year. She just wanted a year to grow up, do fun stuff, travel." My father looked at me while saying this as if asking for my approval, but smiling at the same time, as a proud dad smiled at his daughter.

"If you ever go to Italy, feel free to stop by Bianca." Aunt Bernadette mentioned and Bianca turned to her as if to ask "what are you doing, mom?"

It was no surprise that she didn't really like me, which was alright because I didn't really like her either.

"Sure, I will do that." I smiled for about the fourth time during dinner.

There is always a satisfaction I got from putting people off, annoying people, making them feel something. I knew the last thing Bianca wanted to do was host me in her home so I wanted to make her do just that.

I did do it. About three months after that dinner, I was in Italy and I decided that I needed to amuse myself.

Travelling was quite boring, or better yet traveling alone was boring.

There is only so much sightseeing, dining and people watching that can be done before you start considering that perhaps you should just go back home and spend time lounging in front of the TV - that was much cheaper and just as boring.

My trip was not living up to the standards that I wanted it to be. I have heard so much about pre-college trips around Europe that changed lives, but by now I was calling bullshit and annoyed at myself for even attempting it.

"Maybe you should go out more." My dad advised over the phone. "And you know actually talk to people. Practice your French." I was in Paris, standing over the banks of the Seine.

I rolled my eyes. I didn't want to talk to people here. People were boring everywhere.

"I got invited to go to an orgy tonight," I mentioned. It was only half-true, but I wanted to know how my dad would respond.

"Well, maybe you should do that." He sounded unsure. "Or maybe not. Not the kind of going out I was talking about. Maybe you should visit your cousin Bianca. Bernadette said that she is living in this town called Volterra in the south of Italy, and have this job working for some rich Italian aristocrats."

"That sounds really cool dad." I was sure how much I didn't care was evident in my voice through the phone.

"Just an idea." My father added.

I decided to do it the day after.

I wrote this when I was much younger than I am today. My writing was shit and it is still shit, but I want to share it with the world. So enjoy.