waverly quinn; district seven; wip

I don't feel much of anything.
I talk- more than I probably should. My parents have told me more than enough times that I should shut my mouth before someone shuts it for me. I've never given them much mind, because I really don't care. Maybe getting hit would take me a little back to reality, make me a little more settled in my body again.
Like I give a shit.

Hey, listen. It's not like I don't get happy, or whatever. I mean, I do. It just never lasts. Everything is temporary besides tired and bored and sad. That's my default.
And angry. I'm usually angry.
I'm sixteen. I spend a lot of time in my room- I don't socialize as much as I should. I have friends, I guess, people I talk to at school, but I really don't care if they live or die and they feel the same way about me. We're all the same-more apathetic than anything else.
It's not a hard life, but it's not a nice one.
I'm lucky enough to not have to work yet. My parents came into some lumber money or something when I was a kid, so they can take care of the house and food and all that while I go to school.

I have a sick sense of humor.
I don't laugh at what other people laugh at. Jokes, comedy, whatever-it's not funny to me. I laugh at people dying and getting hurt and that kind of thing. Maybe it's some kind of fucked coping mechanism.
There I go psychoanalyzing myself again. Maybe I should've been born in Six. At least there they could use me for science and figure out what's wrong with my brain.