My name is Michael and I am 16.
I was born in Dublin but after my mom died, my dad decided that we should move back to where he came from: the slums of London. 
He beat on me whenever he liked from I was 2 til I told him to fuck off.
At my school, I am told by my teachers that I'm gifted. All of the academic stuff comes easy to me, but bores me to tears. 
The little money I can scrape together, I get from running errands from the more shady characters of this bad neighborhood.
I use it on three things: food, parties and time at the local net cafe to write my stories.

Or...

My name is Jessica, I'm 27 and I live in St. Michael's Hospital for the Criminally Insane in California.
Despite my sunny childhood with a wholesome upbringing, I have always had sociopathic and sadistic tendencies which have always caused me to either fit in perfectly (because of my skills when it comes to deception) or not do that at all because I can't help but insult their various annoying and mundane habbits.
Despite this, continued therapy has helped me fit in most of my life, and I am studying to get my doctorate in psychology.
But last year I snapped when I discovered that my boyfriend was cheating on me, which lead me to kill him and his whore while they were doing it.
Now I am a pest for the psychologists, therapists and patients of St. Michael's, with my only real interests being my continued work on my doctorate and my stories.

Or maybe...

My name is Frank, I am 42 and I live in a small town in Norway.
With the most ordinary life you could imagine: I am stuck in a marriage with a wife I don't love, I have a job that I hate, the people around me are happy with their unforfilled and small existences. And I guess I am just as pathetic as them. More even as I realize how miserable I am but is too lazy to do shit about it. The only thing I do to try and escape these boring days is write my stories.

Take you'r pick of these stories, their all equal parts bullshit.