The story was written by a close dear friend of mine, Queen Cone. She was too shy to pose for a picture, but I'm still trying to sneak one. Queen Cone is a real cone given to me by my friends from high school. I can't recall if it was sophomore or junior year, but she was a gift they hoped would lift my spirits. The idea that I'm good at masking my depression is really just a farce to make me feel better.
Anyway, she was kind enough to dedicate her story to me...
I know you're all dying to here her story, but I'm not so sure she wishes to go completely public with it. I'll ask her...maybe if your lucky.... But here is just a taste of the beginning of her story.
One would think the idea of my own kind being torn apart and butchered would horrify me. One might believe seeing them patched haphazardly together in the likeness of the species that brought about their death and destruction would enrage me. One might think that. But it does not bother me in the least. Truth be told I am a bit envious of my fellow comrades; they have transcended our pitiful existence becoming something that provokes an array of emotions from those who abuse us daily. The thought that I might follow, preferably in a less painfully manner, in their footsteps seemed impossible. Nothing is impossible.
I wasn’t so much born into this world as I was made. My first real memory was being stacked with others like me and shoved into a large white and orange vehicle. I recall being like that for quite some time. I immensely disliked being in the back of the vehicle and often wished that I would be released from the restrictive space. It wasn’t long before I realized I should be careful what I wish for.