I can't get rid of the birds. Why won't they leave me alone, like my friends did?

I don't believe in friends, now. You know—like how some people don't believe in God? I don't believe in friends. I don't believe they exist. Not anymore. Every person who says they're your friend really has ulterior motives. Maybe they just don't want to look like a loser at lunch. Or maybe they're filling some inner void or lonely spot inside them. They feel like they need a friend because they were socialized to think that people need friends to get through life. Whatever it is, it's all selfishness. Personal gain. What can being your friend get them?

Like Ada. Even Ada. It took me a long time to realize that the reason she was my friend was because she felt sorry for me. What would she get out of being my friend? Well, she got the warm, fuzzy feeling that she was being a wonderful person by befriending a loser. I should've seen through her a lot sooner.

And Evan—well, he was full of it when I first met him, and he was still full of it when he helped kill me. I don't know why he pretended to care about me. I still haven't figured him out. It may be because he was such an idiot he needed someone to feel smart around. I don't know. He was tricky. Still is, I bet.