10/23/06

The way it is today, you're just not even human if you don't suffer. Which is just too freaking funny, because at the same time, if you dare to talk about your suffering- well, then, that's it now, isn't it? God forbid that you should be happy, and even more so that you should whinge about it to people.

See, the stupid shit like this that I think about is the same shit that gets me into trouble. Insert a sigh, and keep reading.

So, it just seems like today's world is about being proud half of the time and humble half the time and miserable all the time.

Parents still together? Terrible.

Never been raped? Absurd.

Perhaps the worst of all- you actually have a good family life?

Well, well, well now. I guess you just about rate at the bottom of the food chain, don't you? Plankton look mighty next to your greatness, your perfection, your inability to suffer.

See what I mean? This sort of shit. One day, I'm going to get in huge trouble, and you want to know why? It's going to be because I can't stop saying and thinking this dumb shit that people don't want to hear.

Because they don't. As much as our human people love to suffer, they don't want to hear about other people's suffering. That way, they can still pretend that even though it must be going on somewhere, and even with people they know, they can pretend that they don't. If you don't know it's happening, for a fact at least, you can protect yourself. After all, Germans didn't know exactly what the Nazis were doing- but, then again, I doubt they thought the Jews were just having an extended mixer at Bingo.

Did you ever bother to ask?

I'm one of those people that are hard to explain. Not because I'm complex- I'm not- or because I'm strange- I am-, but just…I don't know. It's the way there'll always be a low dog in the classroom; something's just projected at you that says not like that! Not like you!

It's easier, in fact, to say what I'm not.

I'm not the dancing type- but I dance in my room all the time. I'm not the stoner partying type- and if I get drunk at least one night in three, well, go figure, right? I'm not the popular type, flat out. Popular people have that projection, too- but theirs is different. It's more Watch me! Want me! Than anything else.

I'm not the artistic type, the athletic type, the academic type, or the nonconformist type.

I'm not the long wavy blonde type- my hair is chocolaty brown, tinted dark red in the light, thick, and perfectly straight. My bangs go basically across my face at the lower-eyebrow level, and the rest of the thickly choppy shag is an inch or so above my shoulders.

I'm not the beach-bum-tan type- my skin's straight-up rosy, speckled lightly with coppery freckles across my nose and cheeks.

I'm neither fat nor curvy- I'm slender, with boobs that only rate in the B area and a butt that doesn't miss bony by too much.

You know what's funny, though? I'm not the ugly type- if it's not tooting my own horn, I should have guys falling all over me. Okay, so I don't have tits you can rest a tray on- my body's taut, smoothly silk-skinned, and long-legged. My hair's glossy and does what I want it to. My eyes are big and icy blue, and my skin might not be tanned, but it's perfectly unblemished. I have full red lips and nearly perfect white teeth- only nearly because my canines are a bit stabby-looking and every so slightly crooked.

Maybe it's a turn-off that I dress kind of oddly. Maybe it's not too cool that I speak my mind on everything.

Or maybe I'm just projecting badly.

I'm not the artistic type, the athletic type, or the academic type. I'm sure as hell not the perfect type.

I'm just Taylor. Nobody particularly bad or special or anything.

I wish people would stop holding that against me.

Ack. I keep leading off. I don't even know why I'm writing this journal, really. Well, I know why- Mr. Schooner will give me a nice fat F if I don't. Ack, but do I hate the Schoondog.

Thankfully there's no risk of him seeing this. Schoondog is my leadership skills teacher, and he respects our privacy. So the idea is that we can write whatever the fuck we want, and he's not going to read it unless we ask. Which is good, considering the bullshit I'm probably going to end up writing about him.

Icky. I'm pretty sure I've written enough for now. Back in the real world, yo.

-Taylor-

A/N: I realise the opening tone of this sounds like it's gonna be angsty, but it won't (hopefully) XDD That's the idea, at least. Please read and review!