Prologue: Meet the Queen of the Fuck-Ups.

"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Brightman, I had hoped that we would have made more progress with Maxine by now. Unfortunately, it's rather obvious that her disorder is much worse than originally anticipated. I suggest that we send her to the Summerview facility in Longmeadow. While it is quite the distance away from you, I believe she'll be able to blossom and improve there."

I know what you're thinking; who is that wretched person, and who are they talking about? I can answer both in one quick shot. So, who's the fucked up girl Dr. Gemma Monroe is speaking of? That would be me. Maxine Brightman. People call me Max though, like the dumbass kid from Goofy or some shit. My condition is an even more ridiculous thing. Some conspiracy Freud came up with I bet. They call it Manic Depression, or what normal people call "bipolar." Personally, I think it's one big cover up to explain teenage girls' hormones, nothing more, nothing less. Dr. Monroe, my parents and the school board on the other hand? Yeah, they think I'm going down one large crazy spiral of hell.

Oh, Max, that is so interesting. Tell me, how did you start on your downward spiral to hell? Yeah, see, I can read thoughts. Well, it's kind of complicated, I guess. My parents always thought something was wrong with me. I'd wig out over the littlest things when I was little, fly off the handle, I suppose. My father's answer to it was always spanking me, thinking it was a temper tantrum. Mother on the other hand was the gentle soul, appeasing me and then asking questions.

As I got older it got worse, my fits would sometimes turn to violence. Ha, I remember this one time my older sister was trying to sing some Britney Spears song in her bedroom, I got so pissed off that I kicked her door. Made a hole in it, impressive, right? Anyway, I digress. That's when my perfect parents thought it was an anger problem, started taking me to crack pot therapists who said it was their fault. Apparently, my parents didn't love me enough, what an interesting theory.

It wasn't until I was thirteen that the depression kicked in. You know what went hand in hand with the depression? This little gem called "bullying." Bitches at school would pick on everything from my hair that was too frizzy, to my stomach rolls, to my name. I was called "Maxi-Pad" almost daily. I dealt with it like everyone else at first, laughed it off and then ran crying to the bathroom. It's just that day after day it really gets to you, y'know? I started to become antisocial, well at least more antisocial. There were days I would refuse to go to school, I wouldn't even leave my room. I refused to talk in class, I had no friends, I wouldn't eat anything. I was internally beating myself up. Everything was my fault.

Now? I'm sixteen, and arguably the most awkward thing to ever walk through Jefferson High school's doors. Standing at a ginormous five feet tall, weighing one hundred and seventy-eight pounds, I'm no Miss America. My pale skin, shit brown eyes and black curly hair doesn't help much. Assholes have found more names to call me than exist in Webster's dictionary.

One other thing about me you should know? I'm in love with the idea of dying. No, I want to die. That's phrasing it properly. I guess it's kind of like being born transgender, y'know? Some people are born knowing they're meant to be another sex, others are born knowing they weren't meant to live. That's just how I feel. So, now you know me, Maxine Brightman, Queen of the Fuck-Ups.