  Why Me? My friend Tony from home tonight wanted to know if I thought he was a bad person. He wanted my opinion. But why me? My friend Kristin decides to tell me that even though we haven't talked in years, she still thinks about me all the time, and misses me.
She's scared to call my phone to talk to m. And not to be narcissistic, but she isn't the first girl that I've had this effect on. Why me? Then there's my job situation - I try really hard for a job that I really want, and they barely even shrug at me and don't return my phone calls.
Then, I go to fill out an application for a job I really don't want, and he practically throws it in my lap. 'I'll give you a call next week. ' Why me? Suffice to say, I'm not happy with life right now. Depressed? Certainly not - I have the rousing evenings of Stratego (I won) and jigsaw puzzling La Casa Lynn (Amy's House) to keep my spirits aloft. But something is definitely missing - I've lost my passion. Even after finishing Atlas Shrugged for the second time (which I am even more convinced is the greatest novel ever written) I felt uninspired and empty.
I think the burdens of the world have begun to weigh too heavily upon my shoulders. I don't know that this was the world I was meant to inhabit - I often feel like I don't fit with it - that I am meant for something different. As much as I love computers, I think I was born in the wrong generation. As a writer, I identify more with Fitzgerald and Hemingway and Ford than I do with Morrison or Grisham or Sparks.
Their language, their ideas, their customs - that is my spirit. But what am I to do, a traveler in a strange land? I need to shrug. Maybe then the world will begin to make sense.
Why me?
Because I am different; because I am not like everybody else; because of everything I stand for, and everything I am and will ever become. And now, I leave you with words which need to be immortalized: emilystarrunner: thank God for vicodin. 
