I swear to god I was born to be a writer. On the brink of my eighteenth birthday it is painfully obvious to me that I am a wordsmith, an artist in the cultivation, creation, and execution of the emotionally resonant sentence. I am a writer. It’s just that I’ve been suffering from a severe case of writer’s block for the past 17 years and 363 days.

I have, therefore decided to write a memoir. These words you are currently reading are the mere beginning of the chronicles of my enthralling. I figure, that one day when my life does come to a romantically tragique Sylvia Plath-esque end, someone will find this buried amongst letters from my various European lovers. And my profound words will launch me into fame, even when I am six feet under.

I suppose a memoir, like any literary piece, requires a degree of social weight. Because I am an artist it is my duty to shed light upon the strife facing thousands of poor souls on a daily basis. And those who fail to lend the most minimal effort in at least appearing as though they give a damn, will never cease to instigate my hypersensitive gag reflex. For instance, the other day as I was walking down the streets of Toronto I passed a panhandler’s protest. Some frigid shrew, whose heart, I suspect shriveled up and died after her first divorce, offered to hand out McDonald’s applications. My response? The remnants of my lunch regurgitated unto the floor. Aah, sacre bleu. I, on the other hand, not only care about the poor sad souls of the panhandlers, but always look through my pockets for change when one approaches me. Oh, and I just adore George Clooney- who is remarkably philanthropic for someone so attractive. And I support all his charitable efforts by seeing every last one of his films, even the really boring ‘politcal message’ ones he directs. I suppose you may as well call me Mother Theresa.

Right now my conscience, or alter-ego, or maybe my imaginary friend- honestly, I am not quite sure what she is, perhaps simply voice of reason. But anyway, her name’s Monique. She is this deathly chic French artist, who spends her days in cafés chain smoking, sketching and writing erotic poetry. Well, anyway, she’s telling me, “Olivia ma cherie, tu es fou, you are nothing like Mother Theresa. Premiere, you are far more avant-garde and have a much better eye for fashion. Second, she donated her life to charity.”

Well, what Monique fails to understand that I have yet to have the opportunity to help. Here I sit, imprisoned by this god-forsaken school uniform, that suffocates the individuality I hold so dear. In a sad life of monotony there seems to be no means to be a nobel peace prize winning philanthropist but in my dreams. I mean, one day, I will help all the poor. Hmm.. but not in Toronto, somewhere more exotic, like Thailand, or Kenya. And I’d travel abroad and wear these long flowy dresses and wrap my hair in vintage scarves as I administered drugs to sick children who would look up at me oh so gratefully. Then I and another volunteer would get involved in a passionate love affair that we would continue in a remote European village, where I’d write my memoir detailing my time in Africa. Then they’d make a movie based on my best selling, Pulitzer Prize winning memoir and I’d star and win the Academy Award for my honest portrayal of… myself. Mon dieu. If only. It’s quite sad how painfully dull my life is that I resort to such elaborate daydreams. I’m in dire need of a source of inspiration that can’t come from my privileged upbringing. Everyday is identical. The same thing over and over and over. I can practically feel my artistic soul dying in these cell walls. My pathetic adolescent existence in this city leaves me deprived of the excitement my free spirit needs. I am totally, completely, profoundly doomed.