Red Cure (on hold)

I refuse to say "dear diary."

After all, I'm not some thirteen year old girl writing about how my mom just redecorated my room to match my pink plush pillows (try saying that three times, fast). I won't write about how I'm not a kid anymore, or how my parents embarrassed me in front of my friends.

I don't have a bedroom. I don't have parents. I don't have friends. And, most importantly; I don't have pink plush pillows.

I'm a sixteen year old girl who won't be wasting paper, a material that is so hard to acquire, just to write about such frivolous subjects.

On these pages, I'll be talking about what's happened to the world and what I've been through. I'll write about what I'm going through, my thoughts and feelings, and whatever else I can think of, while Marine Stevens (you'll find out more about him later) and I avoid people, avoid things that want to eat us; and survive in the rubble that's left.