He was lonely.
She was not.
He was a loner, a freak, a loser, outcast, and weirdo.
She wasn't.

She was attractive.
He was not.
She was blonde, happy, and on top of the world.
He wasn't.

His parents beat him.
Hers didn't.
He had no friends.
She had tons.

She never once thought about people less fortunate.
He was less fortunate.
She spent half an hour brushing her hair.
He didn't even own a comb.

He wanted to die.
She didn't.
He loved her.
She loved him.

She was in a devoted relationship.
He was not.
She grew up to live on the streets, to work as a prostitute no one wanted to touch, and to be ugly.
He didn't live past 16.

The cold, soulless metal drawing blood from his wrists made sure of that.