You know what really knocks me out? Those government bastards. They really do. I mean, in a literal sense as well, if you let them get close enough to do a clean job of it and all. One little thftt and you don't remember a dang thing. Out like a light. But boy, besides that, if you're just running from 'em like normal and all, they're pretty funny. They think they've got you, then you go and slip through their fingers because they're about as prepared as a beach bum in Siberia.

I'm quite an acrobat. I really am. See, when you take a girl like me and, say, toss her in the middle of a downtown like old Indy, which is a real sonuvahamsandwich come rush-hour, and throw in a buncha NPAX bastards on top of that, you have the makings of a real knockout. I mean it. Crazy as heck, with all those cars honking 'cause they don't like all the black vehicles acting like bumper-cars and they're not exactly thrilled about me vaulting over their windshields to get out of the way. I mean, I am moving it like nobody's business and all, and if you get in the way of my survival instincts you're going down 'cause I ain't stopping for nobody. Like, suicidals act now. Get in my way. Take a punch. You won't get far.

I'm a whole three-ring circus all by myself, you know? I really am. With what I have to do to stay ahead of these guys, you could vend tickets and sell out in half an hour. I mean it. By now you're probably wondering what I'm going on about. You're probably like okay, what's going on here, this don't make much sense. I don't blame you. By now, my life doesn't make much sense. If you really want to hear about it, and I suppose you will, then you'll have to pull up a chair and get comfy because it's a long story. And at the moment you're sorta outta luck because I don't have the time to sit down and type out the novel for you on the account of people are trying to kick my bucket for me. Like, I am literally climbing things like walls and those big tall poles with streetlights at the top and making these magnificent twenty-foot leaps (if I do say so myself) to stay ahead of these nutcases. I'm having a heckuva time at it. Stirring up the civilians, for sure.

Right about now you're probably wondering how I'm doing what I'm doing. If you're wondering why, please go and see your psychiatrist. I mean it. And the eye doctor while you're at it. Or maybe you should just come on out here yourself and see how long you last against these guys. I mean, they've got their dang phenoguns and everything because regular bullets just don't cut it, apparently. Know what a phenogun does to flesh? It ain't pretty. You wouldn't last a second. And believe me, I don't need another thing like your death on my behalf on my conscious at the moment. So go and do whatever they say to do when creepy guys in black cars start firing at everything in sight. Hit the deck or whatever.

You're still wondering what the heck is going on here. That's okay. You're not alone. I wonder myself. I wonder why I'm not already dead sometimes. Then the answer comes to me.

Because I am wicked fast.

Because I can't die today, it'd mess up my schedule and all.

Because it'd give those hell-chomping bastards the satisfaction that they finally got me, and giving them any form of pleasure is against my personal morals.

Because it's not me driving in here, it's the alien genes fused into my body.

Although you can probably see that and all, especially if you're one of those slack-jawed people sitting in your frozen 6:00 rush-hour watching me survive certain death. Giving ya'll a bang, aren't I? What, never seen an alien before? Blue skin and double-pointed ears a strange concept for you? Four fingers that grip stuff instead of five regular old boring ones outta your ballpark? How about that fact that I used to be all the way human? Rock your world at all?

Well, maybe you shouldn't build your life out of the Popsicle sticks the government hands out. I won't even get into the whole reflective-eyes thing. By this point, people are usually running in the other direction, so it doesn't matter anyways, I suppose.

Like I said, fascinating book that'll probably capture your attention and never give it back and all, but no time to write it down because I'm too busy living it, call back later, okay? Maybe when I'm less occupied with staying alive. Because, you know, not everyone can leap from building to car to building while being shot at and handle a pen and paper at the same time. Comes out looking like a seismogram, which most people can't read.

So, here, to keep those sitting in the cars occupied – I call it Psychos And The Government 101. Basically, these government guys think I'm a bad guy and I'm not but they're convinced I am so they keep trying to put me out of action in not-very-nice ways. So far they're doing a lousy job of it. Still kicking, aren't I? This is the part where I laugh maniacally, point my finger at them and yell FAIL!!!! at the top of my lungs. Ha!

Anyways, things could be better for me at the moment.

They might get there.

They might not.

They might go flush down the porcelain goddess.

They usually do.

But this isn't your battle, so the best you can do is stay out of my way and not waste boxes of tissues and whatnot. Not that many people do anyways. Most people get a mighty big bang outta seeing me look like this. A lot of them are like 'augh, an alien, run away!' or something like that, I dunno. I tried to stay hidden, but you know? Some things just don't work out all that great. This is one of those crumby times. I guess they figure that because those government guys are chasing after me and raising a heckuva racket in the process I must be dangerous or something. As if. I mean, watch it or I might steal your hankie. Sometimes I use hand soap to wash my face. I'm outta control here. No wonder they're coming after me.

What really kills me is that this whole thing is still secret to most of you. People, get a clue. I mean, when they say what you just saw was swamp gas reflecting Venus on a weather balloon, you guys just nod your heads and wonder what's for dinner or whatever. It kills me. You're a buncha sheep, I swear. Anyway, sorry you're getting such a bang outta this, excuse me for surviving a completely unprovoked attack by your people, our people, I'll try and not dent your Porsche while I'm saving my behind.

See me way up there on that ledge? See how I'm not completely thrilled about it? In fact, see that expression with the wide eyes and tense mouth as I look down and try to flatten myself against the concrete so I don't get nailed and take the fifteen-story plunge? Those of us that have to deal with it call it fear. It's scary up there. I don't like it at all. I ain't doing this whole thing for bangs. Wait – if I was doing it for bangs, would it be called a shebang? You know, because I'm a girl? Versus a hebang? Get it? I crack myself up.

I wish they'd just leave me alone for once. I never did anything to them. I mean, pardon my saving someone's life and all, but really, how did I deserve this, even if that someone was from another planet? Even if that someone changed my life forever? Even if that someone is half the reason why I am where I am now? The way I look at it, it's not my fault. Much. Again, see said novel that'll be out whenever I'm not too busy being mowed down by government wackos and their pet weapons that are stolen, I might add.

Those of you who have had a bad day, place yourselves in my position. You'll feel less depressed. You really will. You could be trapped up here with all these hell-bitten choppers combing the skies and the cars and government bastards clotting below with their crumby guns. Did I ever think this sort of thing could happen to me back when I was a normal run-of-the-mill girl of 15? Not in my wildest dreams. Then again, my wildest dreams mostly consisted of missing the schoolbus and whatnot. Not exactly bang-grade material.

You'll get it sometime.

Hope that's sooner than later.

I really do.