To anyone who dares to try and read this:
Hello backstabber.
I see you've found what you think is a collection of some of my innermost thoughts.
Well the joke is on you.
This collection of paper and scribbles is nothing more than just an attempt to make some sort of alibi for
This book holds nothing like my hopes about white picket fences and Prince Charming's, or steamy dreams of toned abs on midnight beaches. I will not be charting my period or when Billy Fakename looks my way in homeroom.
This book is very low of the scale for the afterlife of a dead tree.
Like, right about grocery list... but just below free local newspaper.
So stop reading now.
Seriously.
-Yvonne Schmitt
P.S. Happy Fucking New Year
