My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky was a perfect, cloudless blue. I was wearing my favorite shirt – sleeveless, white eyelet lace; I was wearing it as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a parka.

You see, the terrible woman who created me loads this first paragraph of my stage with ever so descriptive writing, in an attempt to capture the reader in her incandescent web of lies. She is slowly and incandescently warping your incandescent opinion of her.

I just lost the Game.

In the incandescent Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. This is where I would be living. This was my destiny. This was my fate. This was my hell. Filled with clouds, an empty void of incandescent despair, and the fact that the damn town was named Forks of all things was just enough to plunge me into a depressing shell of solitude. I was totally unprepared at the self-realization I gained when I noticed, for the first time, that not only would I have to live in Forks, but I would have to live with my Mary-Sueness for the rest of my life and into my later undead life as a vampire.

Did you know that it rains in this inconsequential town of Forks more than any other place in America? My inconsequential depression was slowly and incandescently deepening as I went through an endless list of why my life sucked.

Back to the subject of Spoons or whatever the hell this shithole is called. It was from here that my mother escaped with me when I was only a few incandescent and inconsequential months old. It was in this gloomy town that I'd been compelled to compellingly spend a month every incandescent summer until I was inconsequentially fourteen. That year I put one incandescent foot down; these past three gloomy summers, my dad, Charlie-slut, vacationed with me in California for two inconsequential weeks instead.

"b***h, I mean, Bella," my mom said to me – the last of a thousand times (my life SUCKS) – before I got on the plane. "You don't have to ******** do this."

My stupid mom looks like me, except she's uglier, of course, because I'm frickin part albino, b***h. I'm special. I felt a spasm of incandescent panic as I stared at her wide, childlike eyes. How could I leave my slutty, erotic-I mean erratic, hairy mother to fend for herself? Of course she had her man-whore, Phil, now, so the bills would probably (not) get paid, there would be beer in the fridge, milk in her car, someone to use up all the electricity, but still…

I had a completely clear conscience leaving this b***h to die.

"I ******** want to go," I lied. I'd always been a terrible liar, but of course that's the only thing I'm bad at other than being graceful, but that's all a part of my stupid charm.

"Tell my ex-bed buddy, Charlie-slut, that I said hi."

"I will."

"I'll see you soon, bit-I mean BELLA," she said, eager to get rid of me but still putting on a mask of incandescent mother-ishness. "You can come home whenever you want-unless me and Phil are playing doctor-and I'll come right back as soon as you need me, unless my personal needs get in the way, first." Even so, I could see the sacrifice in her eyes behind the promise.

"Don't worry about me," I urged. "It'll be beast."

She hugged me tightly for a minute, and then I got on the plane, and then I was flying, and then I was gone, and then in some alternate universe Stephenie Meyer learned not to use two "ands" in a row.






more of this lovely story in my diar-- uh, I mean, MAN journal.