“My life. I—I have no idea what to do or where to go. Everyone else has their own talents, like a sport or an instrument or a subject in school, and they’re all heading off to college with some idea of what they want, and it’s like they were all made for something. But I’m not smart enough, and I’m not athletic, and I’m not particularly likable, and I’m not that funny or interesting, and I don’t even have a five-day plan, let alone a five-year plan. Maybe I’ll never be better than this,” I whisper, still patting the cow. It’s the closest thing to comfort that I have right now. “Maybe I’m just
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