The second hardest part about growing up is trying to figure out who you are. The hardest part comes after you’ve figured it out and the rest of the world wants to pull you in a different direction.

I look out into the water and up deep into the stars. I beg the sparkling lanterns of light to cure me of myself – my past and the kaleidoscope of mistakes, failures and wrong turns that have stacked unbearable regret upon my shoulders.

If I had an .MP3 of your heartbeat… I might actually get some sleep.

They think I’m not entirely ‘grounded in reality’, they say. They want me to go to some live-in nerdy activity ranch thing for troubled Canadian youth, that one out in Ontario where you come back programmed like some robot, dressed in a tye-dyed shirt and eating tuna sandwiches,

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