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The eerie autumn air blew my jet-black hair across the face. I made no motion to move it. It wasn’t like I had to impress anyone. Everyone around me was dead. I spend a lot of time in the cemetery. No one here judged me; I didn’t have to hear anyone’s fucking opinion. No one stared at me weirdly, no one pointed. I liked to hang out with the dead. They were fantastic listeners. I talked to a lot of people. Young, old. Fighters, floaters, I strayed away from the religious. I didn’t have much in common, being an atheist. It was funny how almost everyone had a cross or Jesus on their tombstone, claiming to have loved him when in reality they didn’t know him. They probably didn’t give a damn about him. I left the cemetery and walked the 5 miles home. I liked walking. I preferred it to public transportation where people stare at your ugly face. I blasted My Chemical Romance, a band that I love too much for words. I walked to the beat of the songs with my black eyeliner on, nails painted black, black converse, black leather jacket, black skinny. Everything; black, black, black. I liked to wear black. It scared people and it’s funny because I’m actually a friendly person. I just put up a huge front. It began to rain. It felt good. Plus, it was fun to watch other people freak out because water was falling from the sky. When I finally reached my cramped one bedroom apartment, I was soaked. My hair was plastered to my face and water dripped from my clothes. I headed for the bathroom and turned the hot water all the way up. I like letting the bathroom steam up and feeling the heat on skin. Finally, I got in the shower. I lathered apple scented shampoo and conditioner into my hair and washed myself. I hopped, tied a towel around my waist, and my wiped the mirror. I stared at my reflection. I don’t label myself really. Sexuality wise, I mean. The way I see it is that I fall in love with whomever my guides me too no matter what their sex organ is. It was all the same to me. A heart is a heart. I changed into a set of Spongebob pajamas and noticed a red light flashing on my home phone thing. I listened to the voicemail. “Jonah” , I rolled my eyes. It was my ex-boyfriend, Liam. “Jonah, I’m sorry,” I broke up with him because he was afraid of what people would think if they knew he liked boys. We never went on dates and he acted like a completely different person in public. I couldn’t deal with that. I needed a person who could accept themselves and didn’t give a flying fuck what other people though. I deleted the message before listening to the rest of it. I was in no mood pity party. Instead, I blasted My Chemical Romance’s first album and around my small living room, singing my heart out. It wasn’t the best voice you ever heard but it wasn’t bad enough to kill you. The music made me go crazy. It was funny how I could be myself while listening to them. Eventually, I was out of breath so I laid on my couch and let the album finish. I pondered life. At 11:30 I put my mind and the music on mute and turned the TV on. It was time for Saturday Night Live. I told myself I’d stay up for the whole episode, but like always I fell asleep.

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