I just realized. I hate you all.
-a picture of teenage angst-
Disclaimer: I’m aware that, by publishing this, I’m committing social suicide. Unless you are going to shower glowing praise on me, I really don’t care, so if you don’t like it, don’t read it.
My parents, in their infinite quest to prove who’s boss, have put yet another damper on my already damp middle school career: it has been decreed that I will not be permitted to join the Drama club, one of the sole highlights of a grueling ten-month uphill battle, till I have published something in this here newspaper. I, in my infinite quest to avoid social norms and defy the world, have come up with this little beauty: a picture of teenage angst.
Indeed, I am at last a teenager! The skies have cleared and the angels have descended to sing songs of jubilation to the souls of Earth. Of course, now I’ll just be waiting the entire year to turn fourteen, but at least for a few months I’ll be caught up with you ancient, ancient people. Summer birthdays suck. Who wants to be one of the youngest people in the grade? Not I. *sigh* These young eyes have seen too much…
So. I have dreaded for a long time (and now I realize for good reason) being defined as a teenager. Why is it that people automatically associate teenagers with rebellious morons who do nothing but party, drink, and make out (I admit I’m combined several stereotypes, but you get the idea)? I’m the same sarcastic outcast I was at twelve. I don’t defy the man because I’m a teenager, I defy the man because the man has and always will suppress me! Oh, the silly misconceptions of the man.
Of course, reading this, you can see why I’m an outcast.
No! I take that back. Indeed I am cast out from the *cough* more popular cliques, but it is by choice! I would not be caught dead shopping at Hollister, smearing on lip gloss in French class, wearing a miniskirt, saying my life is horrible whenever my parents take away my phone for a week, or making out with boys in a corner (at least not in public…hah). I’m much happier reading Shakespeare in my free time, memorizing poetry and passages from my favorite books, doodling eyes in my math binder, reading books with more than a hundred pages, chasing my friends around when they steal my pencil case, discussing the many ridiculous things the in crowd does, never raising my hand in class or talking to people I don’t know (or like), giggling over boys I don’t know the name of, and tripping over things. I’m clumsy, shy, antisocial, and I’m proud!
Hah. No. Not really. But at least I’m not a mindless twit (at least not in public…oh wait, yes in public…darn).
Actually, I suppose I’m not a COMPLETE social reject, considering I do have friends, and they are absolutely the best people ever. I would mention their names, but they’d probably die of embarrassment and ban me from our clique (yes, it DOES qualify as a clique, so quiet) for eternity.
The funny thing is, we’re not all that different from the popular people. We just do everything inside our own little bubble of cool, which is separate from their bubble of cool. Oh, and we’re not stupid. And we have feelings. Not the shallow cry-when-your-boyfriend-of-two-weeks-dumps-you feelings, the real heartbroken-that-the-guy-you’ve-liked-since-sixth-grade-hates-your-guts feelings. Ever heard of them? You’ve probably hurt them at some point in your life.
A common misconception about us teenagers is that we try to be rebellious. Those, my misinformed friends, are called posers. We shun posers. The truth is, most people are just honestly messed up. Actually, I think the in-crowd is more poser than someone like, say, me is. I don’t try to be a depressed reject, I just am (and I’m proud of it!). They try to be popular. We should shun them! Shuuuuuuuuuun! *cue unicorns*
*cough* Okay, so this article so far is a bit rambling. Truly, it is the result of my never-ending frustration at the world combined with the wonderful, wonderful song I’m Not Okay by the greatest band in existence, My Chemical Romance. It’s so unbelievable how freaking awesome they are.
They problem with my (and many others, I guess) music taste is NO ONE ELSE LIKES IT. You have no idea the startling few that actually enjoy My Chemical Romance, Linkin Park, or Blue October. In a world defined by such tastes (my world), I could never get along with someone who knows all the lyrics to every Miley Cirus song ever made or is particularly skilled in the soulja boi. Do you know how ridiculous you look when you do that???? ‘I can wave my arms! I can wave my arms! Wooo!’
I suppose I should stop now; I’ve gone from shunning the pops to outright insulting someone’s taste in music, but then, it’s all about the angst, no? Indeed, who can paint a better picture than a sarcastic, shy, unpopular outcast such as myself? I highly doubt the mini-skirt-wearing lip-gloss-smearing gals at the top of the food chain could feel such bitter, bitter disappointment at the world and its flaws, and if you do, well then, you’re probably one of them! How can you tell?
If you had a boyfriend in fifth grade, you might be a pop.
If you don’t read books over a sixth grade reading level, you might be a pop.
If you miss school to get your hair styled, you might be a pop. Or shallow.
Did anyone catch the redneck jokes? No? Same format as Jeff Foxworthy? No one noticed? Bah.
Alas! I seemed more prejudiced towards the popular girls, and some might say I’m jealous, but, as usual, you’d be wrong. I believe I’ve already mentioned that I’d rather be where I am than where they are? Of course, given the audience that would actually care by this point, I highly doubt anyone understood that, despite the fact that it takes up a good four paragraphs, and this it’ll need repeating throughout the remainder of the article.
No! I am indeed not jealous, more, I am bitter. Why is it that the condescending morons who have everything handed to them in life are always on top? Why can’t anyone on my level wear something from Hollister without looking like they’re trying too hard to fit in? Why do we let popularity define our lives and who we are?! *sigh* I’m on a roll here, but next thing you know I’ll be calling for rebellion and leading said revolt against the pops. And probably TPing their house. Good times.
Since the entire article lacks any kind of structure of organization, and it’s really just a bunch of rambling, I suppose I’m not in need of any kind of formal conclusion. But consider this: now that you know what goes on in the twisted minds of the socially rejected, do you really wanna tell us our gym clothes clash?
-a picture of teenage angst-
Disclaimer: I’m aware that, by publishing this, I’m committing social suicide. Unless you are going to shower glowing praise on me, I really don’t care, so if you don’t like it, don’t read it.
My parents, in their infinite quest to prove who’s boss, have put yet another damper on my already damp middle school career: it has been decreed that I will not be permitted to join the Drama club, one of the sole highlights of a grueling ten-month uphill battle, till I have published something in this here newspaper. I, in my infinite quest to avoid social norms and defy the world, have come up with this little beauty: a picture of teenage angst.
Indeed, I am at last a teenager! The skies have cleared and the angels have descended to sing songs of jubilation to the souls of Earth. Of course, now I’ll just be waiting the entire year to turn fourteen, but at least for a few months I’ll be caught up with you ancient, ancient people. Summer birthdays suck. Who wants to be one of the youngest people in the grade? Not I. *sigh* These young eyes have seen too much…
So. I have dreaded for a long time (and now I realize for good reason) being defined as a teenager. Why is it that people automatically associate teenagers with rebellious morons who do nothing but party, drink, and make out (I admit I’m combined several stereotypes, but you get the idea)? I’m the same sarcastic outcast I was at twelve. I don’t defy the man because I’m a teenager, I defy the man because the man has and always will suppress me! Oh, the silly misconceptions of the man.
Of course, reading this, you can see why I’m an outcast.
No! I take that back. Indeed I am cast out from the *cough* more popular cliques, but it is by choice! I would not be caught dead shopping at Hollister, smearing on lip gloss in French class, wearing a miniskirt, saying my life is horrible whenever my parents take away my phone for a week, or making out with boys in a corner (at least not in public…hah). I’m much happier reading Shakespeare in my free time, memorizing poetry and passages from my favorite books, doodling eyes in my math binder, reading books with more than a hundred pages, chasing my friends around when they steal my pencil case, discussing the many ridiculous things the in crowd does, never raising my hand in class or talking to people I don’t know (or like), giggling over boys I don’t know the name of, and tripping over things. I’m clumsy, shy, antisocial, and I’m proud!
Hah. No. Not really. But at least I’m not a mindless twit (at least not in public…oh wait, yes in public…darn).
Actually, I suppose I’m not a COMPLETE social reject, considering I do have friends, and they are absolutely the best people ever. I would mention their names, but they’d probably die of embarrassment and ban me from our clique (yes, it DOES qualify as a clique, so quiet) for eternity.
The funny thing is, we’re not all that different from the popular people. We just do everything inside our own little bubble of cool, which is separate from their bubble of cool. Oh, and we’re not stupid. And we have feelings. Not the shallow cry-when-your-boyfriend-of-two-weeks-dumps-you feelings, the real heartbroken-that-the-guy-you’ve-liked-since-sixth-grade-hates-your-guts feelings. Ever heard of them? You’ve probably hurt them at some point in your life.
A common misconception about us teenagers is that we try to be rebellious. Those, my misinformed friends, are called posers. We shun posers. The truth is, most people are just honestly messed up. Actually, I think the in-crowd is more poser than someone like, say, me is. I don’t try to be a depressed reject, I just am (and I’m proud of it!). They try to be popular. We should shun them! Shuuuuuuuuuun! *cue unicorns*
*cough* Okay, so this article so far is a bit rambling. Truly, it is the result of my never-ending frustration at the world combined with the wonderful, wonderful song I’m Not Okay by the greatest band in existence, My Chemical Romance. It’s so unbelievable how freaking awesome they are.
They problem with my (and many others, I guess) music taste is NO ONE ELSE LIKES IT. You have no idea the startling few that actually enjoy My Chemical Romance, Linkin Park, or Blue October. In a world defined by such tastes (my world), I could never get along with someone who knows all the lyrics to every Miley Cirus song ever made or is particularly skilled in the soulja boi. Do you know how ridiculous you look when you do that???? ‘I can wave my arms! I can wave my arms! Wooo!’
I suppose I should stop now; I’ve gone from shunning the pops to outright insulting someone’s taste in music, but then, it’s all about the angst, no? Indeed, who can paint a better picture than a sarcastic, shy, unpopular outcast such as myself? I highly doubt the mini-skirt-wearing lip-gloss-smearing gals at the top of the food chain could feel such bitter, bitter disappointment at the world and its flaws, and if you do, well then, you’re probably one of them! How can you tell?
If you had a boyfriend in fifth grade, you might be a pop.
If you don’t read books over a sixth grade reading level, you might be a pop.
If you miss school to get your hair styled, you might be a pop. Or shallow.
Did anyone catch the redneck jokes? No? Same format as Jeff Foxworthy? No one noticed? Bah.
Alas! I seemed more prejudiced towards the popular girls, and some might say I’m jealous, but, as usual, you’d be wrong. I believe I’ve already mentioned that I’d rather be where I am than where they are? Of course, given the audience that would actually care by this point, I highly doubt anyone understood that, despite the fact that it takes up a good four paragraphs, and this it’ll need repeating throughout the remainder of the article.
No! I am indeed not jealous, more, I am bitter. Why is it that the condescending morons who have everything handed to them in life are always on top? Why can’t anyone on my level wear something from Hollister without looking like they’re trying too hard to fit in? Why do we let popularity define our lives and who we are?! *sigh* I’m on a roll here, but next thing you know I’ll be calling for rebellion and leading said revolt against the pops. And probably TPing their house. Good times.
Since the entire article lacks any kind of structure of organization, and it’s really just a bunch of rambling, I suppose I’m not in need of any kind of formal conclusion. But consider this: now that you know what goes on in the twisted minds of the socially rejected, do you really wanna tell us our gym clothes clash?
Spell check on "persuade".
ReplyDeleteHappy birthday?! Yeah, well, fourteen is not that great. Teen angst, yeah, tons of fun. *sarcasm*
I'm always the youngest in my grade, but people don't ever know that unless I tell them because a.) I probably hit puberty before them b.) I act really mature and c.) I am so darn smart.