"Please don't make me explain. Don't matter anyway."

[excerpt from mr. butler's little black book]

i always have the feeling that i have some horrible disfigurement, but no one will actually tell me to my face. like i'm some hideous monster, but too sad + pathetic to be told the truth. my friends are just what i percieve to be friends because of their stark contrast in action compared to the rest of society. and i guess one could reason these beliefs to be true. if i died, i don't think it would matter much. sure, there would be a period of about 2 weeks where my friends, mentioned above, would think they needed to feel sad. some probably not half as long. my family would be pretty mad, but they'd get over it in about a month. the world as a whole would hardly recognize my demise. maybe a blurb in the local paper. when you consider the amount of publicity some people get, it's quite comical. you know that in the back of their minds they are always thinking, "why the hell do all these people know/want to know about me...i'm just me." elizabeth still weighs heavily on my mind. i don't know why. i have tried to forget her, and i do...at least for awhile. but she always returns. taunting me. it probably has to do with the fact that she was the only one who sought me out. that was the only time where i didn't have that feeling of being different. it's sad that i still look to the past. i don't know what the hell i am doing. life is a mystery to me. steel yourself, andy. the worst is yet to come.

[end excerpt]

"Please don't make me explain. Doesn't fucking matter anyway."