I am eighteen years old and about to die. Oh, not in the sense that you're thinking. I don't have a knife to my throat; I'm not being held at gunpoint; I don't have three bottles of aspirin in my stomach. But as I'm about to die, I figure this is as good a time as any to start documenting my life, before it ends.

I'm not someone special. I haven't accomplished great feats in my life. I haven't saved children and I haven't created a new program of charity nor have I discovered the cure to anything. Reading this is pointless, because you won't discover anything. I'm as unincredible and as unremarkable as they come. They won't talk about me in the media, and if you google my name, I'm not any of the people that show up. This autobiography is not meant to be something special. It's not meant to have theories written after it and it's not meant to be studied nor discussed in book clubs. In fact, I hope this never gets published, if only for the fact that there are enough worthless books on the shelves and I'd hate to add my own to it. This autobiography is worthless.

My life, however, is not.

There will be no chronological order to this. There will be no... sense to be had, no index to reference. There will be no timeline; no people that you recognize; no explanation and no apologies throughout this. Just me. Just me, and the clicking of the keys on the laptop before my life ends.

I woke up this morning with a terrible hangover from this weekend, sore in the face and sick to my head. I spent the weekend with Westi and Josh, getting blitzed beyond belief, to the point of not being able to remember much of it. I'm not even sure how I got home last night, but my car is here and in one piece so I guess I drove. Liquor is something that's still relatively new to me, so I while it doesn't take much to get me wasted, I still like to think that I can hold my own. My roommates are watching something in the other room, some sort of... angry thrashing and yelling is going on the television. It always makes me wonder: with all of the anger on television these days, what would happen if I heard a struggle going on in one of the nearby apartments? How easy would it be for me to write it off as a television show turned up too loud? And what's more, if I came back to find a police line and people being questioned and a distressed college girl with her blonde hair draping her face in her hands sobbing, would I feel guilty?

How desensitized am I?

I took a punch to the face yesterday. There was a guy in a button-up shirt a size too small and pants that looked like they'd fit his girlfriend saying something terrible about Shae. Doesn't matter if what he was saying was true or not, all that mattered was that he was saying it. I decked him and as he was going down he decked me. Nick had to pull me off and throw me in the car and tell me, "Drive." I might be violent with a little alcohol in me. Or at least, my violent tendancies are on the surface far more than when I'm sober. Something to consider in the short time I have left.

Ah. Dinner.