Well, a beautiful day of being happy around some guy who doesn't smell or stay sober like Greg, then a horrific bout of crying, here I am.

I'm not really sure how Gregory gets to make me believe like everything he says s completely reasonable, but the more I think about it, the bitterer I get.

We had fun this morning. We exchanged too many kisses and too many hugs and had too much fun stealing ice cream from the lunch place. Wendy Wang saw us and eyed us enviously, suspiciously, and of course I could tell just by her face that she was contemplating exactly what to say to her friends when she saw Oanh, or Christine, or Stacy.

Oh, I thought it was so good. I'd held a little piece of hope in my heart which throughout the week grew and grew until it had blossomed into my limbs, my brain and I felt sure and confident that this was it. I smeared makeup on my face and combed my hair, put on his favorite skirt and when I walked out this morning I felt perfectly glamorous.

Plenty of people checked me out and Gregory couldn't wait to get me in bed and run his hands all over me. So how could I have felt anything less?

Now I feel like do at school again, back to where I was before. Broken, bent, shattered. Whatever.

He complained and complained about his plant essay he had to do, so--silly me--of course I offered to do it for him. That's my nature. My loving, giving nature. Especially when it comes to writing. I'd written a college essay before, back during freshman year. So I did it again. It was very easy this time. 322 words of pure gleaming class-A bullshit. Of course it was totally kiss ass but I was proud of it, metaphors analogies and crap. And of course it gave me that nice little warm fuzzy feeling that I'd done something to help somebody I cared about out.

Then Greg says from above me, "Well, I thought you could make me come before we left, but I guess not."

"No." I said.

"Why not?"

"You're not my boyfriend."

"Aw, c'mon."

"Not unless you're my boyfriend."

"Stephanie. Don't be like this."

Suddenly the hope from every inch ofmy body surged with one pump, black and rotten back into my heart and imploded on itself. Drained, I hung over the computer like a dummy. My eyes gazed at a white, mocking screen. He begged me to say something, anything, but I typed, slowly and systematically,like as if I had fused with the dull grey HP laptop, "...these creatures which appear so fragile have hunting skills that rival even the largest of beasts."

Carnivorous flowers.

I wilted.

Before I'd thought he'd been in my hand as I lounged and said, "You can't resist me." He submitted and buried his lips into my neck agreeably. I'd felt his hands crawl over my cilia and had closed my "fanged mouth" over him, into my warm, acid trap.

Oh, but no. He was too smart for me, this beast. He was too large for my little mouth and now, collecting bacteria and fungus, I wilt. I blacken. I die.

But the fly always has to die too to take the plant down.

His voice became more panicked as he asked for me. I felt used and my fingers darted over the keyboard uncaringly. finally I looked up at him. I was going to leave. I was going to be furious. I was going to walk out and make out with the kid down the hall. I was going to splash my water bottle of tequila into his damn face.

As I raised my head and opened my mouth to speak to him I came to the horrific realization that the fungus had already spread into my heart like radiation from the bitter explosion, taking the place of the hope, eating through my veins and I realized I had no choice now. I was already dead.

When I opened my mouth, a plead came out.

Before I knew it there I was again, weak and powerless and kneeling before him, this awful, huge maggot. When I'd bitten into his flesh I hadn't thought for a minute that I'd become so dependent on him, but here I was begging forgiveness and oh please take me back you can do whatever you want can't you see all I want is you if you really cared about me you wouldn't do this what about all the kisses today what about all the hugs how could you do this to me you promised you promised you owe this to us you owe this to me and to you you owe this to sixteen months and one week of misery how can you do this to me how can you do this to me how can you do this to me.

His eyes looked like they do when he was going to cry. I told him that he couldn't have his cake and eat it too. He couldn't break up with me and expect all this love back. He couldn't expect hugs and kisses. What friends hug and kiss? What normal friends do that? Lovers do that. He had called me his lover earlier today. I don't make out with Brandon. He doesn't make out with Wendy. He threw himself over me, why why why. I could not understand his reasoning, could not believe he was saying it. Was he saying something else? Was I not understanding right?

It's like I was in French class. Madame turned on the tape, and all I heard was "jay nay comranay pootay dootay TRAIN shoofay lootay garbel LATE doomay notre goshay HURRY." I was even more at a loss of how to respond.

A)Ashke morf cafard ton DONT WAIT B)INSTEAD dort lum bootay GO C) Puton merd le spam orangina PLEASE

I want to chose D)fuck it all and die.

I think by now I would be dead if I hadn't burst out crying and a furious Greg hadn't said, quietly, "I know, Stephanie, I know, I know. Shh...it's okay. We'll talk about this later okay? It's not hopeless yet. We'll think--we'll talk about this later."

I've been planning this, you know. I think somewhere in the back of my mind I knew this would happen.

That's why I brought my death costume today. It's not black or anything. Except for the underwear. It's not what you would expect. I've decided how I want to die. I have my favorite black bra and black panties on. Damn sexy for the morgue, embalming table, whatever. And then my Lucky jeans. Plus the piece de la resistance, my I Love My Life t-shirt.

Don't you agree that it's the most beautiful, most perfect think you could ever wish for?

I knew that if I couldn't have him, I would die here. I'm not exactly sure how, yet, however. I'm thinking maybe I'll go to a frat party and get raped or something. After all I absolutely can't die a virgin. How humiliating. Then maybe I'll drink a ton of alcohol way too fast so I'll get poisoning, and then maybe hide in the bushes somewhere so nobody will be able to find me. By morning, hopefully I'll be dead. Maybe I'll run in front of a car. Maybe I'll jump off the top of his dorm. Maybe I'll hang myself from the top of his bed. Maybe I'll eat the pop pop explosives I bought for us to play with, or light the entire box on fire right next to my head.

Sylvia Plath always wanted to do it slice slice in a warm bath, she said.I don't know about that.

The gas or the sleeping pills seem okay to me.

I've decided that when I commit suicide (I say when at this point because I've given up on the idea of a natural death), I will leave but one short note on top of me. It will say, "I am attempting suicide for attention, but if nobody finds me by the time I am dead, I suppose it's better I go anyway."

Oh, think of the anguish it'll cause!!!!!!!!The irony is gorgeous. If anyone steals my idea, I will positively puke.

Oh Oh, if I slit my wrists in the bath, then maybe I can write it in blood on the shower door. Ugh, gruesome!!! I hope somebody takes pictures and puts them on the internet. Then I'll get some damn attention all right.

Anyway, then we walked down to the drama room for his Rocky Horror addition joyfully like nothing ever happened.