After nearly ten minutes of staring in a blank, dissatisfied fugue, you realize that even the sweet cereals with a prize at the bottom don’t get you anxious in the morning anymore. No sugary slush will put Susie’s lips on yours or Tammy’s hand in yours. Susie’s lips are busy with Billy who pushed you into the mud and told everyone that the brown on your pants was just your chronic diarrhea, and Tammy’s hand is in Todd’s who, along with Tammy, calls you frog face. Your parents make you put on tight scratchy clothing for a fancy dinner with all their friends and then get irritated because you won’t smile and be happy while all the old people are being so courteous and nice to you.
There’s no one and no thing that can help you, but there is one word that sums up your entire projected future: Bleak. You just turned thirteen. Welcome to hell.