I sort of feel like I should start with one of the only absolute truths that I know. And that is that I, Grace Charlotte Harrison, am dying. And I don't mean dying in the figurative, “we're all dying” sense of the term. I am very literally not going to make it to twenty-two. Unless, by some weird twist of something you keep getting older in the afterlife, though I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way. But, pending my inevitable kick of the proverbial bucket, I'll let you know.
I'm trying to be done with all the sad. Being sad only leads to being angry. And trust me when I tell you that I've been both. I'd like to be done with those emotions. I realize it's futile for me to ask my parents and my sisters and anyone else that happens to love me not to cry about it, because it's hella unfair.
People say that it's worse to be the person left behind than the one doing the leaving. That might be true, but I can tell you from personal experience that being the one that has to do the leaving sucks pretty hard too. Making everybody that loves you a bawling mess is not something anyone wants. And sure, I can't exactly help it, but they're still crying over me. So...point being, it'd be nice if you didn't.
I'm going to tell you my story. But it's not the one that you think it's going to be, where I talk about how this leukemia came out of nowhere and blindsided my entire life, though it did. But in the time that I have left (which is such a soap opera-y thing to say and I apologize) I want to tell you about something that's a little more selfish but still, pretty important and little more interesting...if I do say so myself.
So, I'm twenty-one years old. And like any other barely adult female...there's this boy.