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That’s it! It’s official. The lipstick scribble “Stacy and Blake forever” on the bathroom stall can be painted over. Can’t say I’m in shock. It’s been obvious for a while, but I guess I chose to ignore it even though it was staring me right in the face. I mean, what guy could resist a girl like Kirsta falling to the floor at his feet, as if he were a god? It’s not his fault her boobs practically spilled out of her low-cut Gucci sweater in the middle of chemistry – thanks to her investment in Scott’s brand tissue paper and heavy duty Scotch tape, I might add. And it’s certainly not his fault he’s a dumb, old, stupid jerk-head who falls for cheap, old floozies like Kirsta either. His “lower” brain was obviously in control in this situation and I can’t compete with that.

But hey, maybe this is a sign I need to be single for a while. There’s nothing wrong with being alone; at lot of famous women do fabulously well without a dumb man in the picture. Look at Sandra Bullock! She’s sexy, sophisticated, and rich. She doesn’t need a stinking man to be happy.

Let me back up. My name is Stacy Donovan. I’m a sixteen-year-old junior at Mansfield high school in Massachusetts. I’ve lived in this slow “there’s nothing to do” town all of my boring life. My parents, Ted and Judy, grew up here too. You can call us “townies” because, if you were to look up “townie” in a dictionary, you’d see our Christmas picture from like ten years ago. My best friend since practically diapers, Keith James, is clumped in the same group. His situation is actually worse than mine – even his grandparents and great-grandparents were from here.

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