Baby Fruitbats of Adderall Island who feel like you are all alone and things will never change, are you listening to me?

But it’s not bad, you guys. And I’m crying when I’m writing this, because I feel so stupid and embarrassed, because I was so, so ashamed of who I was for so, so long. I know I am all popular now, but God, you guys, for years I didn’t have any friends. But you know what—it’s not bad to be different. To be so weird and to love getting speedy and to be chaotic and to love taking notes and copying poems and sleep with pictures of Sid Vicious above your bed. I collected drug baggies and I couldn’t help it; I still love them and all the patterns. I bought them on Ebay. I liked to starve myself and if I had to go to sleep with a man at 1:00 AM I was so miserable. But it was and is OK: it’s just a different life. It’s just different.

Back when I was full of shame I’d smoke a cigarette on my window ledge and talk to God on the 16th floor, age 18.

If anybody—God, do they? If anybody saw, if anybody knew… I used to think three, five, ten times a night. Oh God, oh God, I am so defective and uncool and I would die if anybody—anybody—discovers how gross I am. How crazy my apartment is. How meth lab-y my mind is. How broken my brain is. And I would watch all the lights change on East 86th Street and I would smoke and cry. God. GOD. I’d throw the lit butt out the window. What brand of cigarettes did I smoke back then? Camel Lights. I am the only person like this in the entire world, and I will throw myself off the motherfucking roof if anybody ever finds out the truth about me.