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Ha. This is not my life. It never will be. 
I'm wearing a black shirt. My mom hates black. She says she used to like 
it, but then her father died. She mourned in black for months. Fifteen years 
later, she feels she is mourning her daughter, though I am not dead. 

I went to confession this past Thursday. Actually, my mom kinda forced 
me to go. Before I went in with the priest to tell of my many sins, I made a 
plan. 
Every time I go into confession, I am kept for at least half an hour, 
answering the priest's questions about why I cut. I hate the time I spend 
there because when I am finally let go, my eyes are a watery mess. I hate 
crying. The good thing is that I always go alone, so my mom never gets a 
chance to ask why I cry, nor does she get to ask to tell her of my sins. Or worse, to show her 
my cuts. But Thursday she was with me. Right by me, waiting for our turn. 
I knew I would have to restrain from crying if I wanted to not have to 
confront her about my cuts. So my plan included deceiving the priest. I 
would say the "insignificant" sins at the beginning and then at the end, 
leaving the "big one" in the middle, and speed through them all. That way, 
the priest would have time to hear the first and last ones, which were hardly 
worth the wait, but have no idea of what I said in between. 
Well, my plan worked. He asked no questions, except one: if I had thought 
of becoming a nun. Yeah, strange. I went out of there with a guilty smile. 
My plan worked, but I deceived myself and the priest. Not only did I rush 
through confession, but I also cut right before we left to church, that way I 
had still confessed to all of my sins, while having some Relief. 
Now though, I can't have my Relief, not till at least next week. I will not last 
that long. What will I tell my mom this Sunday when she tells me to go to 
mass and take the Host? 
Ugh. What kind of Catholic am I? I'm ashamed of myself.