Dear Dead Girl,
Yeah, you—the girl whose picture is plastered all over my yearbook. Just because you’re dead. I have a question for you. What makes you think you’re so special?
That’s right. Call me an insensitive bastard. I don’t care. I’m just curious as to why we’re all supposed to look at twelve gazillion photos of you and your friends for the rest of our nostalgic yearbook-keeping lives. Why? I wasn’t friends with you. I barely knew you.
You’re not special, you know. There’s a dead girl at every school. And they always dedicate (deadicate) the freakin’ yearbook to her. Because inevitably, she or one of her friends was on the staff and you know how the yearbook staff is about taking pictures. The only picture of me is the one my parents paid $70 for. And my friends? Well, sometimes they sneak into the background of a shot of someone more popular. But dead girl, you got popular as soon as they found your corpse. What gives?
I thought about killing myself. I did. But since I’ve already graduated, I figured it wouldn’t do much good. And I’d have to see even more of your ugly face in the afterlife. No thanks!
My only alternative is to get published elsewhere. In a book or a magazine where nobody knows about you and I can put in pictures of whatever the hell I want! And guess what? Even if someone reads this and gets curious about you, they won’t know who you are because I’m not going to mention your name. So there. In your face, dead girl!