The lights dance upon that Christmas tree of green that is vibrant on the outside, but slowly dying on the inside. That is me in a nutshell. My hair and eyes are almost perfect. I wear the designer clothes that are all the rage. They might as well be my burial shrouds, my face paint for my eternal rest. Am I misunderstood, or have just misunderstood what life was meant to be? Some might blame teenaged angst, but I blame the angst against teenagers. We are expected to play our roles, but I feel I am the one being played.