I know it’s a cliche: the rich kid who doesn’t want everything handed to him on a silver platter; the rich kid who doesn’t want to be a puppet in a suit; the rich kid who doesn’t know how to be human because he grew up on money and power and perfection. It’s hard to feel sympathy for that kind of protagonist. I get it. But if I was expecting sympathy, I’d be lying a lot more when I tell this story. I’d tell you my mother took Valium and Percocet to forget my father’s adultery, my father drank to forget his disappointing family, and my brother smoked pot to forget he was just the measly second son. But really, none of that is true. They were all perfect, even past the masks; I was the only one who was actually flawed inside, who had to hide secrets under secrets under secrets. And I was good at hiding those secrets because I grew up watching perfect people go about their perfect lives. I had the best role-models a fucked up monster like me could want. But again, I’m not looking for sympathy. I can’t help it if the protagonist of this story is selfish and spoiled and always wants what he can’t have. After all these years of secrets, I’m finally telling the truth. Even if it’s ugly, that’s got to count for something, right?

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