This is a totally fictional short story. Really, 100% fictional. And it's not a subliminal message or anything either: I promise you my emotions are fine.

I'm the kind of girl people want to be near. I laugh, and joke, and I have lots of friends. But unfortunately, all my friends are just like me. Fake. Slutty. All booty and no brains. But that's okay, right? A vagina and tits are all a girl needs to get through life, right?

I want to get a reduction. So I'll be flat-chested. So guys can see me for my personality rather than my boobs. I wanna go at my face with scissors or a lighter or something, so no one will be distracted by my "hot" face when I try to speak my mind. But can I tell anyone how I really feel? No. No no no. Never.

I actually tried, once. To talk about my feelings. It was to my closest friend, Lindsey. She's what you'd expect from a girl named Lindsey: blond, flirtatious, seductive. But we had some shared interests, and we were always whispering and giggling to each other, so I decided maybe I could pour my heart out to her.

"Lindsey," I began, angling my face to the ground in shame. "I'm gonna be super blunt right now, and you'll have to forgive me. It's easier to just say it, though. So here it goes." I take a deep breath. "I don't see the point in life anymore."

Her face fell, and she was silent for a minute. She puckered her perfectly glossed lips in thought before she spoke. "Kel, what do you mean? You have no reason to be sad. You're gorgeous and you're so blessed when it comes to your girly assets, if you know what I mean. What do you have to complain about? At least you're not a starving kid in Australia or wherever. Maybe open up your eyes to all things you can do and be with such a pretty face like that, Kelsey."

"Right, thanks," was all I said before walking away. That was two weeks ago.

Now here I am, curled up in bed on a Friday night instead of going out to party at yet another hockey team member's house. It's late at night and I've removed all my makeup. Looking into a small handheld mirror, I almost don't recognize myself without layers of bronzer and blush and concealer, but it's sort of nice. I'm a new person. Clean. Fresh. And yeah, I'm pretty with or without makeup, but my bare face tones it down so much that I almost look... normal. Like I don't have that one spectacular beautiful face everyone raves over.

Sighing, I lay the mirror back on my bedside and check the time on my alarm clock. 12:33 am. My lamp is too bright for me, but it's the dimmest lighting I have and I don't wanna be in complete darkness. I reach over to my nightstand and grab my trusty Clark. Then I grab my glasses from a few inches away. I need glasses to read. A fuckboy came to my house when I was home alone one night. I answered the door in my glasses and he told me nerdy girls were a huge turn-on of his.

I'm ashamed to remember what we did next. Whatever. A slut's a slut, right?

I shake the memory away as I slide my glasses on my face, reading the label of Clark, the affectionately nicknamed pill bottle in my other hand.

-Herren, Kelsey
-Ambien (zolpidem)
-Do not take more than recommended dosage (2 pills) at one time. This could cause damage to your health.

I've already taken six of these sleeping pills tonight. I wish I could sleep forever and never wake up. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit up a little too fast so that it makes me a little dizzy-- or maybe it a just all the pills. I reach under my bed for my notebook and pen. As soon as my finger touches the cold metal spiral of the book, I pull the paper on to my lap and begin to write.

-People only like me for my face and vag so they won't care if I shoot myself in the head. One bullet to the tit, though, and suddenly everyone's in an uproar.
-I'm surrounded by fuckboys and basic bitches who don't understand how I feel.
-If I start to gravitate toward the artsy kids in hopes of them understanding me, they won't accept me since they all know my slutty rep.
-Then my good-looking sex addict friends will be "concerned" as to why I'm trying to talk to "losers" and they'll pull me back over to their little circle of perfume and gossip.
-It's an endless cycle and the only way out is death.

My hand starts to cramp from writing. I twist the top off Clark and tip him into my palm, expecting even just one pill to tumble out, but alas, there's nothing left. Just like with my soul. Nothing left. I put Clark down.

I jab the tip of my pen into my wrist. It manages to pierce the skin, but not very deeply. I pull the pen out from my flesh and a single drop of blood drips out, rolling down my forearm before disappearing at the crease of my elbow. I trace the trail of the blood with my finger as the wetness of the streak begins to fade.

I remember a guy leaving a hickey once in that exact same spot where the blood drop's path ends.

I whip my head all around the room, looking for some-- any-- sort of weapon. My eyes fall on a frilly pair of glittery purple scissors, laying on my desk on the other side of my room.

I turn to a new notebook page so quickly it rips the previous one. I write stuff down. All of it, everything. I let my tears fall on the paper and smudge the ink of the words I write. I'm so done with it all. I don't wanna just be a sex doll for men or a Barbie for other girl friends to play with. I wanna be a person. I wanna be me. Perhaps death really is the easiest way to accomplish that.

I finally finish writing. I stand up, dropping the notebook and pen passively onto the bed. I pick Clark up for a moment, laying a kiss on his surface.

I walk to the other side of the room and pick up the scissors. Head? No, too hard to break into. Skulls are tough as fuck, man. Heart? Nah, Wrist? Too cliché. Neck? Neck.

I can forsee Lindsey, sitting in a church pew, her face streaked with mascara, her cheeks flooded with tears over me. Shell be crying so hard she won't be able to breathe.

Serves her right.

I jab the scissors into that soft spot on my neck.