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The problem was me. The problem was always me. It was too depressing to think at first, but as time went on, even the rock on the street could not be blamed for why I tripped.

“Babe, what’s wrong?”

“Oh you mean what’s wrong with me?”

“No. I’m asking you if you have a problem.”

“I am the problem.”

He sighed, stood up and went to the bedroom. I feel bad for him. He’s been dealing with my unpredictable behavior for quite a while now. I know that I’ve been in the wrong, but I can’t help it.

Something is wrong with me. I don’t know what it is or how long has it been growing inside me.

My mother would have suggested to “just take a pop of Xanax,” but my superficial knowledge about the effects of taking drugs without a proper prescription will keep me away from those pills.

My father would listen to every dumb thing that I’d say, but he’ll just tell me that “everything will be alright, dear.”

My boyfriend is sincerely trying to help me. He even showered me with gifts for the past few weeks, yet I feel unhappy.


Connie, my best friend, invited me to lunch today. We were sitting by the outdoor dining area at a local Italian restaurant downtown. I can’t help but notice how radiant Connie’s skin was. Her hair was curled, and she was wearing a gold necklace with what seemed like a real diamond.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

“I think there’s something wrong with me.” I confessed.

“Is it Clark?”

I was silenced. I forgot about him.

“Have you been seeing him?”

“I was with him three weeks ago.” I said.

No. Clark is not my boyfriend. But he could be the father of what is growing inside me. Problem solved.

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