I never belonged to this life. That’s why I must end my journey here. Same old shit story: uncomfortable in my own skin, and surrounded by a world that makes me feel less like myself every day.

_It turns out I’m incompatible with life._

I think perhaps if I were a car, I’d be a Gremlin with a cracked windshield and a rear flat tire. And I’d have the shittiest paint job you ever saw: pale salmon with splotches of Bondo at random places, errant bits of rust flaking off that always manage to escape those repeated savage attempts at making me look beautiful, no matter how vigorously I sand and polish. I seem to have come off the assembly line this way. Nobody’s fault really. It just happens to some cars at the factory. We’re pretty much headed for the junkyard as soon as we’re made. Who wants an ugly old jalopy like me, anyway?

Well, here I am, spitting out blue exhaust and crawling along on three wheels, about to drive off a cliff. I never belonged here anyway.