Last night I sang to the monster

Zach is eighteen. He is bright and articulate. He's also an alcoholic and in rehab instead of high school, but he doesn't remember how he got there. He's not sure he wants to remember. Something bad must have happened. Something really, really bad. Remembering sucks and being alive—well, what's up with that?I have it in my head that when we're born, God writes things down on our hearts. See, on some people's hearts he writes "Happy" and on some people's hearts he writes "Sad" and on some people's hearts he writes "Crazy" on some people's hearts he writes "Genius" and on some people's hearts he writes "Angry" and on some people's hearts he writes "Winner" and on some people's hearts he writes "Loser".It's all like a game to him. Him. God. And it's all pretty much random. He takes out his pen and starts writing on our blank hearts. When it came to my turn, he wrote. I don't like God very much. Apparently he doesn't like me very much either. Sad.