it had seemed i was merly a girl. Condemed to this life sentence of pure missury while the other less fortunate ponder upon the living in envey. Their eyes, i can still see them in the faded dust, always with me. Always reminding me, of how i am nothing, and how i am destined to remain of lesser value then, lets say, that man walking by.But i am not that easy to get to, you see, i am different. And that one subtle casualty brings several more casualties, but not to me, but to every one i come in contact with. Any one can truly be happy, but very rarly can one fake their happyness, and get away with it. i AM a conartist of this newly doveloped socioty