I hate him so much. I could easily kill him. My mind is rocked by how much the loathing in the pit of my stomach roars and screams. I hate him. George. His name is pure hate. His drab grey eyes meet mine and say "What did you expect? We are only teenagers," as he gives a smirk. He pokes playfully at the small scar on my side, that is healing slowly. The cause of ruin. Appendixes forever be cursed. He wasn't there. I didn't expect him to be. I called Jack, and tearfully told him what happened. Well...not everything, but most everything. Jack asked if he could kill him for me. I simply said I would do it. I love Jack. Even now, George is in the sitting room, with Bea, Frank, and Rhonda. They don't know. They think I am being moody and weird again, coming onto the computer to furiously write. He also said that I wasn't in school today; he hardly sees me. A load of bull. I hate feeling like this. Feeling like I am needing of something. Rhonda suggested drugs. Of course she would. But no amount of whatever it is they take will fill that want. George sure as hell didn't fill it. No one will. I will be a dried up old spinster with fifty cats and whisps of white hair coming out in tufts on my head. I can see it now. Brandishing a rolling pin at passersby in my white old fashioned night rail. Yup. DAMMIT! I hate this all. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I want to scream and bash my teeth. I need someone who fully understands me. Who is willing to stay at arms length when I need them to; but embrace me when I want them to. I'll never find that someone.