nods her head and turns her music back on.
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I begin to feel worse every time I think about what Xander had said. "Nice is good," I repeat dejectedly. I stare straight ahead for a moment and then squint because the sun is so bright it hurts my eyes. Nice but insane is probably what he meant. I am not insane , I tell myself, I am depressed. There's a difference . I kick at a bit of snow on the ground.
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"You are not depressed," Mom always tells me. "Right," I reply, ''I am just deeply unhappy!" "There is a difference, Alyson," she tells me, then ships me off to therapy.
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I pinch Sarah the way she taught me to, back in fifth grade. It's the best way to pinch 'cause it really, really hurts. She squeals and looks at me, annoyed. "What?"
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"Yes, you're negative, morbid, cynical. . . ."
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She puts her arm around my shoulders, "But that's why we love you."
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I'm also known around school as being depressed.
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That's not to say I actually am depressed. I'm not; I'm a complete and utter sucker for corny, happy endings (I practically live on films like While You Were Sleeping and Addicted to Love ). A movie can be incredible, but if the ending is sad, I'll immediately despise it. But when people want to know about you, they usually ask certain questions, and my answers sometimes feed their "depressed poet" image of me. Fave color? Black. Hobby? Writing poetry and stories. Oh, what kind of poetry? Sad? Usually.
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Of course, I don't exactly dissuade them from the tortured writer concept they have of me, because at least I'm known for something. Maybe it's negative, but it's better than nothing, right? So let them think me forlorn. I have my own friends and I don't really care what any of them think. Except him . . . .
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But a long time ago, I really was depressed. I'd just been
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