I’m not who I say who I am. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but this life is a lie. This life is as fiction as the romance novel corner of your local bookseller. I am too precocious for my age. Adults underestimate my intelligence and my so-called peers are simply jealous.
My real name is Tracy. I was born in San Francisco, but now live in Millbrae. I am fourteen years old and obviously too intelligent for my own good. I used to not think much of myself: I’m short and my hair is badly damaged. In order to justify my existence, I went out with a boy named Richard in middle school. He was a nice guy, but after a while, I realized why my attraction to him was mostly platonic: I liked girls. But my parents would never allow such (much less boys), so I felt I needed to find a way to meet women anonymously.
Hence, this facade. Ever since I successfully cheated on the STAR 9 back in the fifth grade, I’ve found myself to be very resourceful. What’s amazing is that nothing you’ve read here is real. Actually, let me correct myself: It’s all real, but it’s just not really me.
I hadn’t thought of coming clean, but something happened that has forced me to realize my inanity. For the past two years, I’ve been soliciting women from the internet to meet in cafe’s and diners, but ultimately stood them up. Last week, I set up a rendezvous with a 32-year old history teacher from Alamo Elementary, my alma mater. It was at a 50s style burger joint, and I was hoping to get a whiff of her scent. But she never came.
I felt the sense of disappointment and loss that I had given to the many women before her. I felt cheated and wronged, and so no longer can I do this to others.
I apologize to you, loyal reader. Thank you for understanding.