Authors note; HI. IT'S SHORT AND I LOVE YOU.

Song; Fences, Paramore.

Disclaiming; yeah.

I Wish

Eight

I Hate Numbers. And Math. And Everything.

Every number seems to relate to something. I can think of any number in the world and it will relate to something that has happened to me.

Three: the number of times I sneezed yesterday.

Twelve: Dad's shoe size. Dad was huge. He was so tall that when I was five I used to think he was a giant. When he put me on his shoulders I thought I was taller than the mountains. If I put a pair of my shoes next to a pair of his it would look funny. My shoes are half the size of his.

Sixty one: How old Gran was when she died.

Gran wasn't particularly ill or anything. Mum always told me she died of old age but sixty one isn't old, really. I always thought that if you don't live 'till you're a hundred, then you haven't looked after yourself properly. I mean, there is no reason for you not to live until you're a hundred. Gran just… died. I think she was depressed. She died just a few weeks after dad died. I can't even begin to imagine what its like to loose a son. Mum rolls her eyes when I suggest Gran was depressed.

I think she died of a broken heart.

Forty three: The amount of hours I used to think there was in a day. When I was eight I was convinced that there was no way there could be only twenty four hours in a day. I had no sense of time. Still don't.

Two hundred and twenty four: The amount of pages I want in the book I will write.

Two million and eleven: The amount of money I want to make from my book.

Seventy eight: The amount of money it will cost to have a ticket to go to a concert in London. And that's just one ticket. I have no idea where I'm going to get the money from…

Seventy eight: The amount of money I will earn from a job I will get to pay for my concert ticket.