My last breakfast at St. Clara was a bittersweet one. I was finally leaving this prison, but I’d have to leave some great people behind. I’ve never been good at goodbyes, to be honest with you. When I was around ten, I visited Grace in Chicago, and when I left, I cried for about three hours straight. I get over-emotional when I have to leave someone or something. Maybe that’s why my parents never let me have pets; they knew that once it died, I’d be on the verge of a mental breakdown. I even get attached to inanimate objects sometimes; I had this stuffed sheep for around ten years before I lost him. Initially, he had blue overalls, but I took them off him and never found them again. He lived the rest of his life as a nudist. His name was/is Barry; it’s actually Berry, but I wrote it with a
