She is a fake. Nothing but a conniving, and manipulative, pathological, compulsive liar. Any words to come from her mouth lack any legitimacy. I simply laugh as she would not have the slightest inkling of what on earth any of my words mean. Being – by her own choice – intellectually impaired, because she cares not to enrich her mind, but to make fun of those who do care to gain knowledge. She spends each monotonous day of her worthless, pathetic life with the pumpkin patch (my nickname for the girls who paint themselves orange with an obviously fake tan). Not one thing is real about her; her name, her laugh, her accent, her personality: all of it a front. Her brick wall of smiles and 'love you!'s hiding from the world who she really is. Behind all the false pretenses lies a sad, hurting little girl who takes her pain out on everyone else, making fun of someone who had cancer, bullying the most innocent, kind hearted person I know to exist. She feels unloved. She searches for the attention she doesn't get, the love she struggles to find. Her problem is, she is going about it all wrong. Throwing herself to the boys, joining the wrong group of people. She doesn't know how to love, doesn't know what love is. So she continues searching in all the wrong places. As much as I hate her for all she's done, the part she took in tearing apart my world, I feel sorry for her. I am sorry for the pain, the loneliness. I know her life has been immensely more difficult than mine could ever be. However, I hate the horribly artificial person she tries to convey. I hate the girl who goes through best friends like I go through socks. I hate the girl who puts those around her down to lift her own self esteem. Yet, I feel for the girl behind it all. The one who hurts so deeply inside that she is willing to do what she must to dull the steady ache. I can't imagine what she has gone through, the pain she has endured. I do not approve of the horrible, cruel things she does, the biting words she spits out at her enemies, but I understand why she does it. She doesn't know how to handle her pain. Believes that making others suffer can dull her own suffering. Laughing at others pain, keeps her mind off her own. The lies, the deceitfulness, the vengeance with which she attacks those who oppose her: it is all just a ruse, to hide the sad little girl behind, silently crying out for help that never seems to come. I wish I could help her, but I know she is too far to reach, no words can touch her, nothing I can do to help. I can only pity her, though she does not need my pity, will not accept my help. I try to banish my awful hatred of this person who she pretends to be. I try to see past the hate clouding my vision. As hard as it is not to hate her, I must try to see her for the hurting, broken heart she keeps inside her chest. I must realize that she just needs help.