I am seventeen. I have no clue who I am. I am the girl in the second row and the one who sits at the end of the lunch table-but does that even count? I am a reader. I collect books and stack them by my closet. I have about thirty ranging from Where the Sidewalk Ends to The Grapes of Wrath. I collect pictures too; from parties and random outings, of people I used to know and love. But does that even count? I’m a listener. My friend told me about her new boyfriend. My friend told me she was planning to run away. My friend told me she stole. My friend told me she was pregnant. It was nice to know they trusted me-but does that even count? I’m a daughter, a sister. I buy birthday presents with the five dollars to my name that will inevitably be thrown away. I try to make them proud. I make good grades and brush my teeth. I don’t smoke pot or run around all night. I help my grandma everyday after school. I’m a good kid, but does that even count. I don’t like to plan my future. Right now I could care less. I tell them I’ll be a doctor to put their questions to a rest. I tell Mamaw I’ll find a rich man; that way they won’t worry… I tell them I’ll have a beautiful wedding, but really the thought of marriage makes me sick. I want to be independent-But does that even count. I used to play soccer; daddy’s little girl. But then I let him down. Now I play guitar and sing. Who knows if I am any good, but it makes me happy. But does that even count? I believe it does…