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Baby…a.k.a. the unluckiest girl alive.
    Because of Mother Dearest, I have a label I’m never going to shake. Seriously, the “Basket Baby?” What kind of claim to fame is that? I’ve done some more research online, and it looks like nobody even bothered to use my real name in articles because they wanted to hype up my story to see if my mother would ’fess up. I was used as a pawn to sell magazines. The writers pretended to know my mother’s identity so people would buy their shit, and then they were like, “Just kidding! Nobody actually came forward to claim her. But here are some nice makeup ads for you.”
    Now if I want a music career someday, I’m never going to live that down. I might as well just use it as my stage name. Maybe I should go on living as Madison Landers just to avoid that nickname and the horrible stigma that comes with it. If I went to school and people found out who I was, I’d probably get made fun of daily for it. Being the Basket Baby makes me the ultimate reject. Combine that with being a farm girl with glasses and braces and…well, you might say I’m the ultimate dork.
    Where’s a Xanax when you need it…seriously…
    Right now, I have a ton of anger building toward my mother. I wish I could go back in time to the day she dropped me off and demand she get her shit together. After all, it seems like she wasn’t completely sure leaving me was the right thing to do. I at least want to find her in the present day and give her a piece of my mind. I’ve got a sailor mouth from hell, so I could rip her a new one and then some. Looks like I’m going to have to wait at least six months to do that, though…or anything else…
    God, I want to get out of here so bad. I’m so sick of being alone and not having a real life. Now that I know what I missed out on, it hurts even worse. I feel cheated. She cheated me out of my life, and I need to know why. Maybe if there was a good reason, I could feel okay about this…like I made the ultimate sacrifice for the good of humanity or something.
    Okay, that was a little extreme…maybe not the “ultimate” sacrifice. Seventeen and a half years is a pretty damn big sacrifice, though, so the reason had better be good.
    I have to find her. I need to…but I still don’t even know her fucking name.
    Ttyl,
    Mads
     
    ***
     
    For the next few days, I busy myself with homework, Internet research, and shredding on the guitar. There’s something therapeutic about blasting out a song at full volume, knowing I’m annoying the shit out of Nana and loving every minute of it.
    This afternoon, my jam of choice is “Unholy Confessions” by A7X, and I have to admit, my one-guitar rendition of this song is pretty killer. I’ve spent so much time alone in my room practicing guitar that I’m almost at a pro level with some of these songs. By the time I’m eighteen, I should be there, which is the perfect age to start a band.
    About an hour before dinner, I set my Gibson on the bed beside me while I get on my laptop to conduct some research on W3. Turns out there is still a host of fan clubs out there that obsess over them. I’ve been perusing them, but I haven’t joined any yet, because if I accidentally let it slip who we are, the information would probably go viral. Dad would flip a shit, and I’d never get to use the Internet again.
    Instead of looking at more fan clubs, I go to YouTube to watch some old W3 videos. After about half an hour, I hate how much I love their band. They might be one of the reasons my life is a wreck, but…dammit, this music is the song of my soul. It’s mournful and melancholy with a driving backbeat that makes you feel like screaming at the world. The mechanics of Cass’s guitar solos are absolutely insane . I’m dying to attempt one of these songs.
    There’s one song in particular, “Tearing into Silence,” that I really like, so I listen to that one about ten times in a row, focusing on Cass, who’s killing it in the