For the most part, my teenage years sucked. But I loved being fifteen. No, I didn't get my driver's permit, and I did find out that I failed my freshman year, but being fifteen was great for me. I had a nice little birthday party with my friends, Jennifer and April. I got pictures of my little pomeranian Chewie eating cake and ice cream out of a little bowl because it was so cute. I was in love with my health teacher. He was hot and nice and funny. I had fun at school and I had a lot of friends. I spent my summer doing hospital voulnteer work. I wore my candy striper smock as I escorted patients, processed film, and ran errands. I spent two weeks at fine arts camp, learning music theory, voice lessons, dance, piano, music history, and musical theater. There I learned that a polonaise is NOT sandwich spread. I went white water rafting with my church youth group in the mountains of North Carolina and Tennesse. The view was breathtaking and the weather was perfect. I learned French when school started back and I felt so smart. I got my first serious boyfriend, Josh. I went boating with him almost every other weekend. Boating was so fun. I felt a strange freedom sitting up in the bow as the wind blew through my hair and as the boat bounced up and down behind the other boat's wake. Christmas was nice; I got a lot of money. Then my sixteenth birthday came and it all came crashing down...