I get out of bed, sliding the razor back into its not-so-secret home. Did no one think about looking under beds and in books anymore? I guess not. People are so stupid. That's why I'm considered clumsy. When the real reason I don't talk much is because people are, as I said before, stupid. I don't like socializing with idiots. But then you might as well call me a hypocrite. Because my best friends are all the epitome of idiots. My thoughts begin to wander to yesterday morning's events. That girl. The person I promised to talk to attempted suicide. Darling, don't you know that you always lock the door? She saw me too. He saw me leaning against his apartment complex, the nice brick ones that my mother was going to move into, before finding out about the Princess. That's what I call the suicide angel, because I have no idea what his name would be. I bet it's something beautiful, like her. You see, I'm not the most... stable guy in this town. I have this thing that I do whenever I get attached to something or, in this case, someone. I have a habit of destroying ...