Dialogue Essays: Perilous

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I clamber off my bed, sliding the razor back into it's not so secretive home. Did no one ever think to look under beds, and in books anymore? Guess not. People are so stupid.

That's why I'm considered awkward. When the real reason I don't talk much, is because people are, like I said before, stupid. I don't enjoy mingling with idiots. But then, you could also call me a hypocrite. Because my best friends are all the epitome of moronic.

My thoughts begin to wander to the happenings of yesterday morning. That girl. The one I pledged I was going to talk to, tried to commit suicide. Darling, don't you know to always lock the door?

She saw me, too. She saw me leaning against her apartment complex, the cute brick ones that my mum was going to move into, before she found out about the Princess. That's what I call the suicidal angel, as I haven't got any idea what her name could be. I bet it's something beautiful, like her.

You see, I'm not the most...stable, boy in this city. I have this thing I do whenever I grow fond of something, or in this case, someone. I have a habit of destroying ...

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