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Individuality

Essay by Maggie - Submitted to the Wilson Lariat Newspaper

I keep writing this article in twisted refrain. Not truly expressing my feelings in its wholesome, gruesome, obscure ways that I naturally would’ve. Probably the amount of isolation I’ve had for the past three years as an awkward teenager has caused me to become the way I am. A high-spirited individual when I haven’t crossed the boundaries of the school that I’ve been going to since I was five-years-old. Once I get inside those treacherous walls and try to concentrate on facts I’ll probably forget the week after the test, I feel drifted, disconnected to the reality I am faced with. I know most of the relationships with people in the school won’t last and most of them are phony. I stare consciously, but in a daze, at all those kids laughing with somebody they really think are idiots. Where has individuality gone? Where has our argumentative freedom of speech gone? Has it gone to a world concealed by shallow advertisements and betrayal? God, I’m starting to sound like Bono. Ah, no wonder! I’m listening to U2.

In every outcast’s personal fantasy is to stand on top of their desk and scream their soul at everyone. For instance, if one of the popular cocky kids makes a retard joke that everyone laughs at, even though it sucks to the bone, I wish I could trudge over to the kid, slap him on the face and bark, “Your jokes suck! They’re only laughing because they’re afraid that their popularity will be that of an outcast if they don’t join the crowd. Idiot.” This is probably why almost every outcast I’ve discovered in the media has gone totally insane with bottling up their feelings. The only way for me to tell my feelings is in the words that I type; the words that I breathe make me want to steal the air. It makes me want to become a pirate DJ for heaven’s sake (however it’s illegal). I want to stop my bottling up right now, so I won’t become so insane in high school or in my later years of life. I guess that’s why I write, but writing sometimes never reaches people. Sometimes they don’t listen because of the reputations or fraud rumors surrounding you from idiots that have no sense of direction in their lives. Or possibly they’re lazy. I’m sick of people telling me to go talk to the counselor after I write something controversial. What? You want me to speak to a stranger on the street? Why can’t I talk to you and everyone? Why can’t I just randomly stand up in math class and tell you my life story? Why? WHY?

Oh, is it the oh-so-scary rules at school that chains up every student from having their says? Is it the treacherous theme essays we have to write in the language arts classes that we really don’t care about, like with journal entries? Aren’t journal entries supposed to be an area to dispose of feelings, to let it all out – not a place where you would have to drawl on about why so-and-so in a book you’ll never read again in your forsaken life ate fried chicken? I swear I don’t understand these things. Every teenager doesn’t understand these things, but they don’t have the silly guts to stand up and say it.

I go to school every day and every day feels like another day in my jail sentence to be tortured by human beings that don’t understand me, but believe they know every square inch of me from my favorite color to the first time I lost a tooth. Everybody has this feeling, don’t they? “You don’t understand me!” we moan at everyone. Well probably because you haven’t spoken up, you haven’t broken up with the supposed “friend” because you’re scared to lose your popularity. I don’t care about your popularity rates. I CARE about who you are, what you stand for in your once chance for life, and if you’re true to yourself and not by the greediness that caches the world.

There are myriad problems in a teenager’s life, heck; in every life there are countless tribulations. For instance, I just want to make more friends. I really do. But why haven’t I made any friends? I hate starting up conversations, that’s the only reasonable thing I can think of. I remember a quote I said when I was a child on my way to preschool. Mom asked me how many friends I had. “Hundreds!” I would squeal, thinking hard before answering. I wish it could be that way. I do have over thirty friends online, but less than five in real life – and even those I can’t trust as most people are allusions to someone else they aren’t. But what are the reasons of the fellow population in the school that I have to go to for nine years? Ah, because I like unusual things, because I’m not one of those vulnerable airheads, because I am different. Let’s just say it! People think I’m disturbed, demented, or think too much. Even my “friends” complain that I think too much just because I sit still, oh-so-quiet, thinking of ways to solve something or even just what CD I shall listen to once I get on the bus so I won’t have to listen to kids jabber about how hot somebody is. They say I'm disturbed, well of course I'm disturbed. I mean we're all disturbed, and if we're not, why not? Doesn't this blend of blindness and blandness want to make you do something crazy? Then why not do something crazy? Go nuts, go crazy, and get creative! You got problems? You just chuck'em, nuke'em! They think you're moody? Make them think you're crazy; make them think you might snap! However, this doesn’t mean, go home and blow up your TV set and shoot a couple of toasters. Just go up to someone, do something radically different. For instance just tell your true feelings about a situation, whether it is your old friend from elementary days that you’ve felt guilty about or your parents, just tell somebody something! Don’t become disturbed all alone! Share with everybody! It will make you feel better. I don’t want to become the little Miss-Voice-of-Generation, but I just want to give everyone a swift kick in the bottom. Wake them up; wake yourself up! I’m not really in that “Oh, my life sucks!” angst that everyone thinks is so cool. Instead, a fuse has finally blown, causing me to snap and write this article.

 


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