I grew up bored. My flair for drama made me irritable with the normalcy of the comfortable life I led. I longed for the lives of people who wrote into literary magazines with stories full of meaning, and lives full of a gritty truth. I longed for parents who didn’t understand me in my teens; parents with problems, who drank, who hit, anything to break the suffocating sunlit happiness that was my life. I shunned that happiness, considering it fake, something that would never let me truly delve into the depths of my inner avant-garde. I turned away from it, wanting to find that primal, bitten, battered truth that I heard in the words of those people in the magazines. I’ve begun to really search for it, but I have a feeling based on my narrow-minded view on happiness, in this short moment that might be the only truth I’ll find, that when and if I find it, I won’t understand it.