What is an adult? Becoming one didn't suddenly transform me into anything outstanding or significant. I am 18 and entirely unremarkable. Languishing in the wilds of Nowhere, Tennessee. In this tomb of a house, left to me by my brilliant and selfish parents. They're not dead. Though, they pretend I am. They're permanently abroad. Literature is my solace in the solitude. And writing is my only means of escape. Because, you see, I've never left the edges of this town. It's positively gothic, really. Lonely girl longs to escape the interminable boredom of her small village. Lonely girl longs to be meaningful. Lonely girl longs to be loved. Books make longing seem romantic. But it's awful. It's greedy. And I wear longing like a fucking veil.