People never think that crazy people know they’re crazy.
We know.
It’s kind of obvious.

Of course, normal people like to live in their little bubble of happiness and bullshit, so I guess they would say that. Like they’re defending our actions, and always tell us it isn’t our fault.

What a load of crap.

Just like we know we’re crazy, we know what’s wrong and what’s right. The fact is, we don’t care. Well, most of us don’t care. We just go about our business, ignoring the normal folks, like they try to ignore us. We have an easier time, because there isn’t anything remarkable about normal people. They’re normal.

Duh.

So, I don’t get any relief out of seeing doctors and therapists, and sympathetic family members. They treat me like I have cancer. “Are you sure you want to go out today, Jill? It’s rather chilly,” sure, you can tell me that, but the thermometer is outside my window.

It’s 68.


I wonder if they’re stupid enough to think I can give it to them. My cousins are, and I got kicks out of chasing them around, screaming gibberish and pretending to foam at the mouth.
Ah, good times.


But, you know, none of it really matters now, because Im not going back there for a long time, maybe never, if they try me as an adult. Im 16, but my lawyer (If you can call that half-baked pot-head a lawyer) told me that because of my crimes, they’ll want to try me as an adult.
I don’t understand that, because it isn’t like I killed anyone. They killed them. They killed everyone but me, because I got “lucky”. I hate that word now, because I don’t understand how Im lucky to be going to prison for a crime that never happened.

I didn’t kill anyone, you have to believe me.