I want to make fake dead bodies. I'm not very lady like. People with too many feelings bother me. I rock back and fourth all the time and my fingers are always bleeding. I like wearing flannel shirts that are way too big for me. Everything I own has lipstick stains on it. Weakness makes my spine shiver, and I have a twisted out look on it that no one understands, and never should.


I want to travel. Campbellsville has got me bogged down, restrained like a straight jacket, and there is nothing better than thinking about leaving this place. Three more years and I am out of your hair, Campbellsville, the one stain on the perfect sheet of small-town, dry-county hospitality that you cloak yourself with in order to cover the underground drug run, or, the main economy line. It’s like spraying crap with perfume, nothing makes me gag more. In a matter of years, I’ll drive past the Taylor County line, wave good-bye to the last police man with “confiscated” Mary Jane in his left pocket, and go somewhere twice as corrupted, twice as stable. It won’t matter; I’ve learned not to let a town, especially one that causes such a personality clash as this one, hold me down. I would like to say, that you taught me a lesson. I’ve learned how to hate, be stubborn, determined, and imagine. I wouldn’t make it anywhere in life without this knowledge. Don’t get smug, even in three years, I won’t stop hating enough to turn around and thank you for it.