“It’s only teenage wasteland.” –'Baba 'O Riley', The Who

 

That song has been engraved into my mind for at least three days now.  And whenever songs like that get stuck in my head, it is usually because I, in one way or another, can relate the lyrics to some crucial issue in my life. 

 

So it occurred to me then.  When, in the middle of Spanish class I subconsciously began humming the tune.  The lights were off and the brightest thing in the room was the projected image of a comic strip in espanol on the wall.  Sufficiently bored, I peeled my eyes away from the image and glanced at the seats surrounding me, each one occupied by its very own blob of sweatshirt, jeans and acne covered flesh.  The majority of these blobs lolled face down against their desks, either fidgeting, text-messaging, or deeply asleep.  My peers.

 

I felt like I was in a post-war scene.  Me: struggling to stand up, using my musket as a crutch.  And once I manage to obtain balance, I solemnly look out to an endless field of dead, wrangled, wounded, ruined bodies. 

 

“It’s only teenage wasteland.”

 

I don’t know about you, but I feel like the scum of the earth.  Lackadaisical, incompetent trash.  I wake up at six thirty, I practically unconsciously drag myself through school, I go home, go online, eat, go online, eat, and finally, if there’s still time, get some rest. But I don’t really deserve the rest. What am I resting for?  I’m the slug that does nothing.  That apathetically breathes through each day.  Exists.  Takes up space.  And yet I’m always just so tired. 

 

I guess when I looked around at everyone in Spanish today, it convinced me that I wasn’t the only one.  That yes, there are other scumbags out there, just like me. Drooling uselessly over their binders.  Inhabiting the earth, yet not exactly making a difference in it.  Usually, realizing I’m not alone reassures me.  Reminds me that there are other people going through whatever I may be experiencing.  Consoles me, comforts me, telling me everything’s just fine.  That what I’m doing, what I may not be doing, whatever it is...it’s okay. 

 

And although I know better, I often carry that sense of comfort with me; sew it over my eyes so that it impairs my vision.  Because without it, I’d have to confront that in-your-face, hideous, unveiled truth.  That states it doesn’t matter whether it is just me or fifty million others.  Whether I’m the only one that spends my entire science period thinking up demonic ways to publicly humiliate the teacher, or if everyone else in the class is doing it, too.  Because I am nonetheless riding along on that bandwagon of worthless garbage.  Because every turn it makes is pointless. Because no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, it will never be okay.

 

 

The only thing we despicable blobs seem to be capable of, besides memorizing and analyzing every nonexistent symbolic moment of One Tree Hill, besides reacting to just about anything in the dullest way imaginable…

 

i.e.:

 

Random Parent Who’s Life Basically Sucks But She’s Optimistic About It: HONEY! You won’t believe this…but I got my job back!  And guess what?! Your dad and I? We’re getting back together!  Amazing, huh?  Eleven years of brutal divorce and now viola…we’re having another kid! You’re a big brother now, you big boy! Oh…and I forgot to mention great grandma, you know, the one we all missed so dearly?  Well, guess what?! She came back from the dead!   

 

 Scum: Oh.

 

 

…would be that we can form our own beliefs. ‘Think’ if you feel like being generous about it.  Yes.  Behind those droopy eyelids, behind those bloodshot eyes, somewhere up there, exists a human brain.  And it allows us to formulate our own opinions, believe in what we feel is legitimate, honest, just. Guess what?  I have morals. I just don’t use them all the time.

 

Maybe I’m so useless because I’m simply too busy trying to sort out my own values, my own beliefs.  This is considered the ‘awkward stage’ of life, right?  I’m reaching out for answers, reasons, and I only grasp air.  But I need conclusions because they are the only stable things that could possibly inhabit my mind.  That could possibly balance and support other answers, reasons, conclusions.  Until one day, years and years from now, it will all make sense.

 

The only conclusion I have is this:  You need to have faith.  In anything.  It doesn’t matter what.  Just so long as you believe in something strong enough to let it guide you throughout your life, even entwine itself into the choices you make.  Because once you are capable of believing, you are sure.  You are positive. You have reasons.  You have answers that are based entirely off of your convictions.  And then your existence is not futile.  You are living for something.

 

If you don’t possess the ability to have faith, you really don’t have anything at all.  Nothing in your life matters because you don’t have the convictions that add the life to them, add the meaning to them.  Which would make you, in essence, waste.

 

I guess I was wrong in saying that my Spanish class consists of a bunch of moronic, practically inhuman blobs.  I guess we could be considered homo-sapiens if you squint hard enough.  And I guess I can’t really speak for all of them, but maybe we really are all just so tired, so lazy, so ‘blah’ because we’re seeking a niche to grab on to as we fall deeper and deeper into this endless abyss of teenage wasteland.  Seeking the strength to depend on it, trust it, until finally everything eventually falls into place. 

 

Or maybe they just didn’t get enough sleep last night.

I remember way back in the dinosaur time I used to read this endless book series titled 'The Baby Sitters' Club'.  Although I can't remember the exact names of any of the characters or the plot to any of the millions of stories in the collection, I am still able to recall one detail: I was disturbingly obsessed.  To the point where I not only hurt myself, but those that were close to me.  This type of scenario tends to reoccur yearly. 

My goal in life as a second grader was not to make new friends in my new school, was not to knock everyone out in an intense game of tag, was not to place first in the weekly spelling bee.  Back then, my goal in life was to be a part of that Baby Sitters' Club.  To show to myself and to the world that not only could I change a diaper, but i could also balance three sleeping babies on my head, catch a couple three year olds seconds before they hit the pavement after bike and scooter accidents, flip over a batch of Mickey Mouse pancakes before they burn on the stove, and do the Macarena at the exact same time. I guess i thought it was healthy.  You know, dedicating all of my eight year old sweat and blood into being accepted into a nonexistent club for kids ages thirteen and up. 

My futile aspirations: some things never change.

In the eyes of an actual teenager, my attempts at being the star babysitter of the township could most accurately fall under the category that all hard-core punks tend to label Good Charlotte as: a Poser.  Despite the fact that eight is an age young enough to be the babysiton, rather than the babysitter, I was nonetheless  inadequate for such a job.  The last time I touched a dirty diaper was the day before I was potty trained.  The last time I allieviated a crying baby, the method involved toilet paper and scotch tape.  The last time I cleaned up after myself will be about seventy years from now when I’m wiser and dying.  “Poser” was my name. Singing foul songs about how much I ‘don’t wanna be youuu’ is, thankfully, not my game. 

I guess it all comes down to the fact that I just wanted to be a teenager.  A babysitting, I-hang-with-my-pals -at-the-local-pizza-parlor-on-Saturdays-without-permission-from-my-parents-because-I’m-a-badass-like-that, responsible, teenager.  And being eight, the only way I could remotely portray even a pseudo-teenager would be to head over to Limited Too, buy every shade of glittery nail polish they had in stock, paint each finger and toenail a different Barbie-esque color and eventually wonder why no one slapped me five anymore. 

Seven years later, I not only avoid glittery nail polish, but I baby-sit about twice a month. I only do it because if I didn’t I wouldn’t have any lunch money.  And I don’t trust myself with packing. Being me, I’d probably starve to death without lunch money.  So, by means of establishing a believable excuse, that is why I baby-sit on perfectly normal weekends.  When I could be out having fun.  Like hanging out at the local pizza parlor and stuff.  Illegally, of course.

But just because I make money off of it doesn’t mean I don’t wish that  parents didn’t have social lives anymore.  That doesn’t mean I don’t wish that every single house on my street didn’t contain at least one crying toddler on a tricycle.  Change your own diapers, goddamnit, I say as they complain that they just pooed in their pantsies again, that the hot new season of Blue’s Clues just finished.  “Momma’s boy”, I snarl to the one and a half year old crying as his mother’s car pulls out of the driveway.

Kidding, I’m actually pretty nice to the kids.  Even if on the occasion I wish I could take that Thomas the Choo Choo train video, tape over it with Samara's story, and let them die in seven days. 

Ha, kidding again.  They usually get to me first.

You may think that little kid Matt across the street has a toy tool shed just because.  Ehm, no.  That plastic hammer, that realistically scary chainsaw is not just used to help Bob the Builder and his latest creation.  They’re also used to threaten people with their lives. Mainly self-absorbed babysitters like me.  And they get pretty into it, too.  The last one I encountered made me help him put on his Spiderman costume for a good fifteen minutes so that he could kill me and then sped off on his transparent web without a trace. 

There are, of course, peaceful children as well.  Last week my friend Beth and I babysat two twin boys whom were more than willing to answer any of our questions and believe anything we said just so long as we didn’t lay a paw on their precious Halloween candy.  At one point we asked the red head, who ‘came out of mommy second’ if he picks his nose, and if so, why.  “I only do it when I’m hungry,” he said defensively.  The other one proudly announced that he “bites his arm for fun.”  To add the cherry on top to an unnaturally calm night, we told the two of them that we were Harry Potter’s cousins.  We only did this as an attempt of getting a piece of their Halloween Candy.  But despite the fact that we could’ve turned them both into warty toads, they continued to guard their treasure with their lives.

As I write this, I can’t help but think about how much little kids can suck.  But then I come to the realization that hey, I was one once, too.  And holy mackarel did i suck.  So bad, in fact, that for a full year I didn’t think I was one.  “How old are you?” someone would ask.  “Thirtee....I mean...eight.  I’m eight,” I’d reply, bearing a smile missing its two front teeth.  “Eight and a half.”

A few minutes ago I clicked into my ‘Daryl’s Stuff’ file to read some of the papers I wrote last year.  Probably to see if I improved in any way, shape or form.  As it turns out, I didn’t.  At all.  I’ve actually managed to become incredibly stupid.  I’m surprised I can still type coherent sentences that contain words over two syllables long.  Like ambidextrous. See? That’s my biggest accomplishment of the day.  Week, even. Ambidextrous, ambidextrous, ambidextrous baby.  Four is a lucky number.

 

Yeah.  So anyway, after reading some painful thing I wrote on the battle of Anteitam, I died.  Then I came back to life and clicked on this word document titled ‘Letter to Myself.’  It’s a letter Mr. Oppel, my former language arts teacher, made everyone write to their high school senior selves.  So I decided, hey why, not.  I’ll post it here.  Keep in mind that I cut out about a whole page of it, which focused mainly on the details of my sad excuse for a social life and certain body parts.

 

Letter To Myself   6/10/04

 The problem with writing a letter to myself four years from now would be….many things.  For one, I’m probably going to try and be all cool since, you know, I’m writing to a high school senior.  And I know for a fact that for the past fourteen and a half years (as of sunday) of my life, I have always looked back on my self from previous years and laughed at how much of a moron I was.  I mean, in sixth grade I thought I was the shit when I wore those tie-dye spandex pants.  With my laced up leather combat boots.  And my crimped hair.  And my purple eyeshadow.  And now that I look back on it, only two years later…I don’t laugh.  I cry.  So I’ll just hope I (or you) am not doing that as you read this.   

 

Whenever I write to my future self, it’s like I’m kind of feeling around for something in the dark.  Or that I’m trying to have an everyday conversation with an invisible person.  Not that I write to my future self that often, but you know.  Four years from now I could be in another school.  Again.  Four years from now I could be famous.  Four years from now I could be flunking out of everything.  Four years from now I could be dead.  Which would make this a waste of paper.

 

But anyway, I’ll fill you in on what I’m like right now.  Just in case you forgot.  Basically, I’m your average, ordinary, sort-of-teenager that molds everything that enters my life into a pessimistic, sarcastic one-liner.   I’m about as self-absorbed as a person can get and I never clean anything up.  But as they say, a clean room is the sign of a thoughtless mind.  Which probably isn’t true.  But it makes me feel better about myself.   Mom and Peter hate me for it.  However, since I’m so self-absorbed, I could care less.  Hopefully you aren’t like that now.  Hopefully…

 

I’m not saying to abolish world hunger or anything.  But could I maybe, just maybe, help someone other than myself for the sake of benefiting someone other than myself?  Meaning to not do something good just so that I’d feel like a better person...but so that someone else is happy?  If that’s okay with you.

 

So self absorbance is one thing.  Another would be my laziness. I don’t apply myself in any of my subjects except for LAR.  If you saw my science test scores from last month, you would never let me even touch a dead frog, let alone dissect one.  And I can give you twenty reasons of why the name ‘hairy-nosed-wombat’ is a disgrace to the animal who owns it.  But I couldn’t tell you one and a half things about what exactly a hairy-nosed-wombat is.  And algebra?  Barely started it.  I’m in connected math with the lovely Mrs. Fried.  Mrs.  Fried.  If I knew what a hairy-nosed-wombat was, that is what it would look like.  Short, stout, little beady eyes, and a jew-fro.  She thinks I am so stupid.  And I don’t know, maybe I am.  In her subject at least.  She talks to me extra slowly, pronouncing each syllable as though speaking to a goldfish.  So I play along and stare blankly and the space between her eyes.   I smile and nod.  I furrow my brow and pretend to concentrate when she walks by.  And then I get back to picking my split ends, eyebrows, and cuticles.  Because, in a way, letting out my stress by picking at my nails is far more appealing and helpful in the long run than the stuff she’s teaching us.  The only thing she taught us that I saw was used in real life was the Pythagorean Theorem.  The scarecrow said it in the Wizard of Oz when he magically got a brain.  But guess what?  He didn’t even say it right.  So that proves it.  Everything we truly need to know we learn in kindergarten.  Unless you can prove me wrong.

 

I won’t make a bet on that either since a) I have no money and b) I’m probably smarter than I am right now.  And who makes bets with themselves, anyway?

 

Yeah, so that’s my personality, I guess.  So onto physical appearance.  My face is screaming “JEW”.  But it’s not my fault.  And I’m proud of my religion.  Despite the fact that I’m not even reformed. I’m beyond reformed.  In my Sunday school, we probably study Jesus Christ.  But I’m so reformed I don’t even go to Sunday school, so I wouldn’t know. But many people don’t think I’m Jewish.  The nose is sort of the giveaway, but maybe that’s just me.  My hair is either light brown or dirty blonde but I like saying it’s dirty blonde because it sounds better.  I straighten it every day because I have wavy hair phobia.  But mom takes my iron away whenever I leave it on.  So I’ve been wondering. Do I still have hair? Or is it all split ends? Balding? Using Rogaine?

 

And as a result of the class trip we had yesterday, I have transformed my once sincerely white skin into a lobster shell.  I’ve been slopping on the aloe like no other for the past few hours.  I actually brought the bottle to school and all my other fellow crustaceans (Sam Cantor, Brian Giles, Keith Weber, Other…) came scuttling over desperately like the sad echinoderms that they are.  (Echinoderms…right?)

 

Another physical dilemma of mine would be my height.  I think I failed the height test.  Thank you, mom.  I’m 5 '2 without my two and a half inch flip flops on.  I started wearing those things last year and got so used to the height that now that’s all I can wear.  Most people think I’m 5’4 because they never saw me without them. Which is fine with me.  But whenever I feel like a midget, I think about how Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen are only like 5’1 and they’re 18 years old.  That makes me feel better.  I’m a very sadistic person.

 

So onto my social life.  It kind of reminds me of my sanity.  Sometimes I have it, sometimes I don’t.  So far it’s been pretty okay, though.  Especially last Friday...

 

 Woops.  Sorry.  That's confidential. 

 

 

 

I believe i lost my personality.  Or at least it is slowly slipping away.  Or dying.  I have this sudden impulse to make everything i write about have a sudden death, if you haven't noticed yet.  I'm starting to think it might be a sign of depression or lack of sleep or that I don't feel like growing up.  Or maybe a combination of those three. Mostly the lack of sleep.  I haven't had a dream in months.

Maybe i should catch up on my z'z.  Maybe i should hire a therapist.  Maybe i should move to Neverland.  Maybe i shouldn't be so paranoid.

 

I guess I'm just a little worried that the person i wrote to half a year ago is going to be a total stranger.

"It's just turkey", my mom said into the phone a few minutes ago as she gave one of her quick half-smiles, "Making it relaxes me.  I mean, what's the worst that could happen with that kind of thing?"

A few hours later, our house was engulfed in angry flames.  "The 'burbs are going down," the firey pits of hell said as they relocated into our kitchen. As the fire spread, our neighbors screamed, ran for their dear lives.  Some pulled a quick Dolly Madison and ran back inside their houses to retrieve their most valuable possessions.  Like their children's ADD medication and Channel purses.  Children just stood dumbstruck in the middle of the frosty streets, clutching their teddy bears, sucking their thumbs.  "Mommy?  Are we living in a reinactment of 'To Kill a Mockingbird'?"

"Don't think so" said their parents in response as they, too, watched the remainder of our house collapse, the ashes spreading over and destroying anything nearby, including the brand new corvette in the driveway next door.  "Rats, now i only have seven." said the owner of the vehicle.

The ashes of our former house spread as quickly as a rumor all throughout town. People we weren't even associated with drove by just to tell us that they were having nearly fatal coughing fits.  That they couldn't breathe. They couldn't see anything over three feet away. That, dare i say it, their furniture was collecting massive amounts of dust.

Twenty-four hours later, on black Friday, no more complaints rebounded off the nonexistant walls of our home. Because by then, everyone was dead. 

"Damn," Mom said as she continued to brush the crusty ashes out of her hair, "I burnt the turkey."

There are many things in this world that cause me to instinctly bash my head against the nearest wall.  Algebra, my sister's voice, eggplants, and songs with lyrics that contain words such as 'dis', 'dat', and 'gurl', just to list a few. However, there is one thing in particular that truly gnaws me to pieces.  That truly kills me slowly, painfully.

The loss of words.

Shamefully, i must admit i am socially challenged.  Whenever i speak to people i'm not entirely comfortable with in person, the right words completely disintegrate in my mind. Which leaves the impression that I've suddenly disappeared into a coma.  Either that, or they jumble up.  Making what was supposed to be a mere 'How did you do on the social studies test?' into a mutated "Um..did you..how..did you on the...social studies quiz...i mean test i mean quiz?"  My remark often leads to an exchange of awkward, sympathetic glances between that person and a few passerby, silently confirming the fact that I must be a 'Special One'. 

Five million insightful quotation websites once told me that.  That I'm special. That I'm different.  That whoa man, i am one cool kid. 

 Like everybody else. 

And it has started to sink in.  That there are billions of people in this world and like it or not, every last one of them, every forty year old work addict, every petunia garden obsessed housewife, every last three year old wannabe ninja turtle, is special.  Is worth the conversation.  Is somehow, even if you have to squint in order to believe it, interesting.

In sixth grade i believed i was the epitome of what defined 'unique'. I would make petitions banning plastic flamingos in the United States, i had cereal for lunch, i'd often answer questions in class using a British accent, and I took a painting class where the youngest person besides me and the teacher was about fifty-two years old.  It came to the point where if i saw a helicopter buzzing anticipatingly outside the middle school, i was convinced it was the Discovery Channel trying to catch a shot of me leading a 'normal routine life' for one milisecond of my childhood.  "Look, there she is now..holding a...number two pencil.  You heard it right.  Number two.  And she's holding it with her right hand. Like everyone else. See? Even the Special Ones eventually drown in conformity." And then they'd edit it into their special edition documentary premiering for two consecutive weeks titled "Modern Psychopaths: They Just Keep Getting Younger..."

Back then i had things to talk about.  I didn't care if anyone besides myself thought i was weird in a negative way.  Because it was engraved into my thick skull that who cares?  I'm the unique one.  So go ahead. Wear your glittery Limited Too shirts and superciliously turn up your noses to Saturday Morning Cartoons.  Watch the Real World.  Hey, name your first born after your favorite person on the show.  But i'll be watching Dexter's Laboratory and wearing whatever the hell i want.  So suck on that you adolescent insipid clone of a being.

Since then I've fallen into the trap of number two pencils and not being ambidextrous or a lefty.  'You are unique.  Just like everybody else' has tainted my belief that the second part of this quote is entirely false.  Because i'm not the only special one.  Someone out there is weirder than me, is funnier than me, is more athletic, artistic, better at speaking in a pseudo-British accent than me.  And sure I'm okay with that. I have accepted it. It just, for some barely explainable reason, intimidates me.

The impression a person makes of themselves is an easy way for shallow, judgemental people to define a person's full character in the wink of an eye.  And that in itself is terrifying.  Since everyone is so different, has some sort of special quality or detail about themselves that distinguishes them from everyone else, I feel as though i am living in a constant battle, fighting to not suffocate under the pressure of developing my own personal identity.  Because in a place like this, no one really wants to be unnoticed, ignored, forgotten.  Because in a place like this, everyone is so goddamned special.

Socially challenged.  Because of those impressions. When i talk to an even slightly unfamilar person, my heart stills.  My mind freezes.  This is it, i think. What i say at this moment will affect how this person will think of me from now until possibly the next time i talk to them.  Make it good, Daryl.  Get the words right.  Say something witty, funny, insightful.  Make them remember you.  And in most cases, i fulful at least one of these aspirations.  In most cases, it's the last one.  But only because those right words never float up to the surface, never ease out of my mind and into the world.  Only because they curl into painfully awkward silences and sickeningly mutated sentences that are barely recognized as an attempt at speaking in the English language.  "Oh, that girl Daryl.  Was she foreign or mentally ill?"

And that is what truly kills me slowly, painfully.  My incapability to say what i want to say.  To show to the world - not in an instant message, not by a telephone call, not on a weblog - but face-to-face, the type of special, teenage psychopath that I am and will always be.

"Who here has herpes?" asked my health teacher to the class as they snored over the keyboards in the computer lab.  Two people shamefully raised their hands and went up to the front.  She nodded thoughtfully and continued on down the list. "What about the female reproductive system?  Does anyone here have that?"  One boy snapped out of his lazy daydream and into attention.  "Uh, yeah we have the female reproductive system." he droned as he shook his partner in order to wake him up. "Good...great.  Heroin, anyone?"

"In Need of Serious Mental and Physical Help" might be the first eight words that pop into your mind after reading the above text. Following that train of thought might be the disturbing image of an average, ordinary looking pair of boys sitting on the toilet while taking a pee. There is definitely something terribly wrong with this picture, you may think as you hit yourself just as the term ‘herpes’ materializes in your mind. And i completely agree with you.  I mean, what sick kind of individual decided on having our class sit through yet another full marking period of drug and sexual/other education and be assigned to do thirty minute presentations on such subjects? And why?

It’s not even the fact that this would mark the fifth year I’ve had to endure this that makes having to memorize every hallucinogen in existence so unappealing.  If that were the case, I could easily write a similar entry about how I ran out of fingers and toes while counting the amount of times I’ve learned about pronouns in English class.  Or how often we’ve covered the Declaration of Independence in social studies.  Repetition of information is one of the more insignificant flaws that health class today possesses.  It’s not how often I have to watch the same exact film showing an innocent group of kids die of cancer as a result of their mother’s second hand smoke that gets to me.  Because clearly, the constant showing of this video must suggest that the teachers are just trying to prove a bold point.  Don’t Do Drugs.  Don’t Do Drugs.  Don’t Have Sex.  Don’t Go Bulimic On Us, It Grosses Out the Janitors When They Clean the Toilets.  Oh And By The Way, Don’t Do Drugs.  They constantly order us around.  Telling us not to do these things.  And when we question them on why, like the majority of blossoming adults do, it is so important that we don’t do these things, they educate us.  They have to.  ‘Because we said so’ is not a legit answer.  It just triggers our urge to rebel.  “You said so? That’s your explanation? Well look, Ma, I’m going to find some creative way of committing suicide just because you told me not to. What now?!?”

What really bothers me about health class is that the stuff it constantly reiterates merely goes through one ear and out the other.  No matter how many times little Sally learns that anorexia is fatal, she is still going to feed her slice of birthday cake to the famished dog salivating beneath the dinner table.  No matter how many times we all learn that smoking is bad for us, hundreds of thousands of people nonetheless die as a result of it per day.  At this rate, it doesn’t matter how much we know about crystal methamphetamine or just how well we can say it without biting our tongues.  Because people nowadays are daring beyond reason.  They could know all the symptoms, all the complications, all the wrongs of crystal meth.  They could ace that subject in health class.  And they could gladly snort the stuff anyway. 

So why are they still forcing us into health class?  What exactly is the point? 

I believe it's the Board of Education's silent way of surrendering while still maintaining their pride.  Yes, we know over half the school will still have  premarital sex and smoke weed despite our yearly attempts to scare everyone out of it.  Yes, we know no one listens to us.  So you wanna play it the hard way? Here, have another marking period of vagina diagrams and Say No To Drug videos.  It won't change anything, but it sure as hell will piss everyone off. 

Well, at least they are succeeding in something.

Politics and I don't mesh.  That's all i can say about the subject without coming across as an ignorant citizen that didn't vote for Bush simply because he's a 'douche'.  I've asked people what exactly makes him a 'douche' and they never truly answered the question directly.  'Um...eye dee kay...that's what everyone else says.."  and "His southern accent pisses me off."  are common responses.  And when i roll my eyes at their less-than-insightful answers, they automatically assume that i'm all for Bush.  That i'm anti-gay marraige. That i'm anti abortion.  "Doesn't it bother you that we have a president that permanently looks like he's staring directly into the sun?" they interrogate, trying to sway my supposedly stubborn opinion.  Thinking that seriously, if anything could possibly change my hard-core Republican perception on life, it would be the fact that President Bush has ridiculously squinty eyes when he's sucking up to the country.  I mean seriously.

I'm not Republican in the least.  Nor am i Democratic.  Nor am i for Bush or Kerry.  I am ignorant.  The amount of information i know about the election that occured last week might be equivalent to the amount of love i have in my heart for blue cheese omellettes and all they stand for. And blue cheese omelletes might just be the absolute worst breakfast you could possibly come up with.  Next to muching away on your own kidneys.

I don't know whether it gets better or worse as each election stumbles into my life.  The last one between Gore and Bush took place when i was in fifth grade.  I was caught up with the Backstreet Boys back then.  That's all i cared about.  As far as i was concerned, Bush was the bad guy and Al Gore had a cooler name.  But i didn't realize, nor care, about how irrelevent the information my opinion on the election was based off of.  To me they were just boring politicians that would sooner molest their ten year old nieces than attract me to one of their dry debates on CNN.  If an unfortunte foreigner ever asked me what i knew in general about the U.S president, my response would have been something like "Well they're the boss and stuff.  Oh yea.  And they usually do it *giggle* with women young enough to be their daughters.  And then someone shoots them and they die."

Well, i guess that's one way to scare off anyone who was planning on moving here. 

Yeah, and i know it got old.  We found out Bush was the president again almost a week ago.  But a week ago i was trying to be all knowing and politcal.  But falsley knowing.  I wasn't the one that quoted the editorials on Newsweek about the election.  I was the one that wore glasses to look intelligent, that carried around Newsweek in the public to make it LOOK like i knew what exactly was going on. When, in fact, i didn't.  I can honestly say i have not a clue about what stem cell research is.  Research on stem cells i'm guessing.  And i don't know anything about the war or where the country's money is going or why Bush is pro this and Kerry is anti that.  I know basically nothing.  And i'm not proud of it.  It's just that I'm not easily amused.  The only things i really care about in life are my grades, my social life, and on the occasion my family.  Anything outside my little world is practically nonexistant.  They're not real.  Just headlines and articles and interviews and Breaking Newes.  And i guess i'm just too self absorbed to look past the gray hairs and monotonous speeches and actually care.

"...high of 60. Partly cloudy...and a little bit of a breeze." Swish. I miss the first time.  But the second time my sleepy hand falls with an impassionate smack on the top of my radio alarm clock.  I keep my eyes closed for a brief moment.  Trying to recall the dream i just had. Thinking maybe, if i really try, i could take the orange and blue and red blurs swirling and dancing behind my lids and trace them into a vague intimation of what the world might be like in the unconscious state.   What the world might be like if every little thing, significant or neglible, weren't instantly, thoughtlessly catagorized as either Impossible or Possible. 

I open my eyes, surrendering to the impossibility of returning to dreamland.  And at the same time my physical surroundings coerce the obnoxious pangs of reality to come swarming and buzzing into my clouded mind like an army of furious bees. Wake upbuzzzzzz, they hiss.  They interrupt. They invade. They chase away the colorful clouds of what remains of my blurred perspective of the definate line that separates possible and impossible.  And the line is now vivid, and realize who and where i am.

Crap, i grumble as i rub my tired eyes to adjust them to the annoyingly perky light that infests my yawning room.  I have an algebra quiz today.

I can still remember the first time i ever threw away my social life all in the name of having an effective Halloween costume.  I was in fourth grade.  Pretty chubby.  Bangs so symmetrical they could teach their own geometry class.  A few close friends to help me endure that incredibly awkward stage of my life.  But no boys.  At all.  That one time when i thought Dan asked me how my winter break was? He was actually talking to Tori.  During group literature circles, Kyle only asked Meghan for her screen name. And about that guy named Mack.  He wasn't real. 

Needless to say, since my interest in boys in my school evaporated about as quickly as I realized that they had no interest in me, i focused my heart shaped pupils on a group of guys with even higher voices than that of a ten year old, not to mention a higher age. 

If i wanted to, i could easily blame everything on MTV or my dad's extremely effective influence.  But I'm just going to face the facts.  It was all my fault.  I was the one who saved up enough money to buy their white-hot new album.  I was the one that screamed with glee when their songs hit number one on radio countdowns.  I was the one that named my five favorite stuffed animals after those godly idols and then videotaped them as i attempted to make them break-dance.  I loved the Backstreet Boys, and i would stop at nothing until everyone else in the world lip-synced to 'I Want it That Way' with the same sickening amount of obsession.

There's this sort of underground cult in the world that i like to refer to as 'The People Who Would (Or Already Have) Exchange (d) Their First Borns for Front Row Seats to a Sold-Out Concert'.  But, in less specific terms, they can also be known as 'The Number One Fan.' 

The funny thing about 'The Number One Fan' is that there isn't one of them.  Those screaming teenage girls harassing that security guard that separates them from Justin Timberlake are ALL his number one fan.  The one with his name tattooed on some private part may say she is more of a Number Oner than the girl that legally changed her name to Cameran Diaz, but guess what?  They are all number one.  They all deserve a gold star for achieving their life-long goal of touching Justin Timberlake's sweaty jock strap and never, no matter how many hazardous bacteria colonies begin to grow on it, wash that hand. That’s right. Every last one of them. 

Shamefully, I admit i used to live and breathe the lifestyle of this cult.  And I was proud of it.  However, the only difference between me and every other number one fan was that i WAS the only number one fan for the Backstreet Boys.  In my entire school, anyway. While i bragged about knowing every measly riff and cranny to 'Backstreets Back', my peers blasted Limp Bizkit through their headphones to drown out my endless ramblings. 

But the breaking point was when i brought in a Howie D. poster for my teacher to hang up on the wall of the class.  It was my favorite one, the one I bought at Spencer’s gift shop a few weeks into my obsession.  And all I wanted to do was share its beauty with everyone else.  So they could, possibly, see what was so special about the Backstreet Boys. That’s all.  A little poster about the size of the average convertible never hurt anyone, right? Zack Byrnes didn’t think so. As it was being hung up, he started chanting slowly and quietly.  "Buuurn it. Buuuurn it. Buuurn it."  The other students turned around curiously.  Once they caught on, they too began to whisper "Buuuurn it.  Buuuurn it. Buuuurn it." Everyone chanted rhythmically. I swear I felt the room begin to vibrate. Mrs. Hayman, the teacher, turned around from stapling the poster to the wall to hush down the students.  I hid in my sweatshirt, trying to think of happier things. Smiles.  Candy.  Laughter.  The Backstreet Boys. And everyone erupted, drowning out my thoughts.  "BURN IT BURN IT BURN IT!!"  The students shook their fists with rage.  Lee Boyer started screaming Limp Bizkit’s 'My Way on the Highway" and shielded his eyes, as if by staring into Howie's face he might suddenly transform into someone like....me.  Justin Curtis jumped onto his chair BURN IT BURN IT BURN IT!!! Kurt Roudebush gave me the death stare BURN IT BURN IT BURN IT!!!!

Clearly, converting everyone into the Backstreet Boy cult was not the answer.  It didn't matter whether 'I wanted it that way'.  It was their 'way on the highway.'  Reluctantly, I told Mrs. Hayman to take the poster off the wall.  Everyone cheered and applauded, as if they had just discovered a long, bloody war had finally ended.  I remained huddled in my sweatshirt, a sinister smirk plastered on my face.  Ha, i thought as I played around with my fake Backstreet Boy Backstage Pass that dangled around my neck and watched as expressions of joy and relief swept over the faces of my fellow classmates.  They are so totally going down. 

I truly tried to think of an insidious plot that would have had the entire class begging for Backstreet Boy mercy.  Truly, I did.  And in the end, I thought I truly had come up with something.  Something so evil yet brilliant that afterwards I even watched Austin Powers several times and began excessively quoting Dr. Evil for two consecutive weeks. 

But now that I look back on it, all I really did in the end was make myself the living, breathing, walking definition of the term ‘Freak of Nature’. 

Basically, one horrific day, I dragged my mom into Spencer’s gift shop and made her purchase every single ounce of Backstreet Boy fan gear they had in stock. My Halloween costume.  And boy, oh, boy.  Was it terrifying. Then, when I got home, I made a bunch of pseudo business cards out of construction paper and tin foil.  On these business cards, it read in innocent, hot pink permanent marker:

Daryl S*******, grade 4 

President of the Offical Backstreet Boy’s Fan Club. 

WE LOVE THE BACKSTREET BOYZ!!!!!!!!

BRIAN<3KEVIN<3HOWIE<3AJ<3NICK<3!!!!!!

 

Join or Die.

And on October 31^st, I layered on that fan gear, all those pins of AJ and stickers of Brian and t-shirts of Kevin, and put those business cards in my backstreet boy paraphernalia covered pocket.  And then.  I went out in public. To the school Halloween parade, to be exact.

Needless to say, this act had similar results to that of the Salem witch trials. 

It’s not that I was burned at the stake, although my social status might have been.  It was more like standing stark naked with a bunch of I HEART MOM tattoos cluttered all over my body, in front of thousands of people.  And these people would point and laugh.  Not because I was standing naked in front of them, stating my true opinion, my true belief, but rather because I had I HEART MOM tattoos all over my body.  Like those hot motorcycle leatherpantsers pruning it up in their late 60’s.  My classmates didn’t snicker because I set out for something I truly loved, but because what I loved was the Backstreet Boys.  After finally realizing this, I felt cornered.  Like at any minute they would tie me to a stake and set my feet on fire.  ‘Screw you and your ridiculously humungous Howie D poster, too!’ they’d hiss to the rhythm of the angry flames swallowing me whole.

 “Burn her burn her burn her!”

With so much pressure and sudden sense of intimidation shadowing my spirit, all I could do in the name and pride of the Backstreet Boys was mutter a quick ‘Here’s my card’ to any remotely welcome-looking passerby. They'd just glance at me with utmost pity and awkwardly turn away. As if i were some poverty-stricken individual moping around the city in nothing more than rags, asking for spare change to buy drugs or a few hours of fun with a common prostitute. Eventually, once the school day finally ended, I went home to contemplate where i went wrong that day. Little did i know it at the time, but i went wrong way before that.  I trick-or-treated for a little while. Alone, as my usual friends were just too ashamed to be seen with me.  And even so, i got pillowcases full of goodies.  But that candy would have tasted so much better if I knew in my heart that my plot of converting my peers to Backstreetboyism had been a success. So there it went. One more childhood dream. Strangled to death by the manipulative, deceitful claws of reality.

Thankfully, since then I’ve regained my social life.  And ripped it up in many unique ways as well.  Um, here’s my card.

Daryl S*******, grade 9

President of Millburn High School Cheerleaders Fanclub

It’z already bin brought

 

Join or Suffer the Cheeronsequences.

Hey, if you define ‘Freak of Nature’, you might as well have pompoms.

I've come to the realization that i haven't talked about the present in awhile.  Like, I might give you guys the occasional snipit of what exactly i might have done today or yesterday or 'recently'.  But once i get into the 'factual' information about my life i promise you, i swear, it will all eventually be related to some worldly concept like Love or Courage or Starbucks. 

I'm sorry. But there's just no way out of it.  Every time i write an entry i have this immediate impulse to write something that gives outsiders the impression that i experience at least one life-changing catharsis per week. That i am constantly improving myself by relating even the smallest, simplest things in life like say....a sponge...to the larger things like the character traits and personalities of certain people.  See that sponge? It absorbs.  It absorbs like all the selfless people in the world that choose to hang with the homeless rather than fart around the house while talking a mile a minute on their cell phones.  Hey, and if you try, you can be a sponge, too. 

Yeah. Isn't that everyone's life-long dream nowadays?  To be a sponge?  

I'm not saying that what i do is a terrible thing.  I'm just saying that metaphors are dictating my belief system.  That's all, really.

Anyway, there weren't any cathartic moments this week.  That's why i wasn't exactly sure if i should even consider writing in here today. Because i didn't learn anything worthwhile.  I didn't even learn what i was supposed to learn in algebra.  But i guess the ever-so-interesting stuff we learn in algebra could fall under the 'worthwhile' catagory.  If you want.  If you plan on being an accountant.

But i don't.  So x and y can go die from the pressure of some seventy pound textbook catapulting into their mathmatically corrupted skulls for all i care. 

I guess caring has been a problem for me over the past week.  Or lack thereof.  Like, last year i'd wake up at six in the morning and be out the door by seven ten.  When people questioned the ridiculous amount of time i spent getting ready for school, i'd just shrug.  I'm slow in the morning, i'd say.  It takes me like ten minutes to tie my flippin' shoes.  But in reality, i just cared.  If my shoes didn't match my belt well then god forbid.  Sometimes, i hate to say, my outfits controlled the very mood i would portray that day.  Since i was just too lazy to come up with my own opinions, i let the ridiculously priced shreds of cotton on my body do it for me.  Sweatpants meant i was either too tired to have to go through the whole 'lift up my low-rise jeans before sitting down in order to avoid a horrendous crack attack' routine, or when i woke up i just felt like the fat bastard as an adolescent girl.  Jeans meant i'd eventually, probably after lunch, feel like the fat bastard as an adolescent girl.  And anything that wasn't the color blue meant it was the weekend. 

But now?  I wake up at six forty-five and throw on the first thing i see in my wardrobe.  Matching, as great as it looks, is the enemy.  And, try to muffle your screams, but i have replaced several minutes of valuable mirror time for. choke.gasp....breakfast. 

Now that i think about it, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  When the doctors and school nurses and people of higher authority than i used to tell me that, i'd just laugh in their calcium enhanced faces and cram two slices of pizza in my mouth.  Stick it to the man, i thought.  Rebel! Eat pancakes for dinner!  Have dessert first!  Drink coffee right before hitting the sack!  And if i could, i truly would go back in time.  And hit myself. With like...a bowl of oatmeal or something.

Fighting against the system can be a grand old time and all, but i guess it should only be taken so far.  I look back on my anti-breakfast days and drop my head in shame.  Not because i was intentionally trying to avoid taking advice from a doctor that undoubtedly had more hair on his arms and possibly tongue than i do on my entire head, because i'd still do that. If my doctor was a still a human orangutan, that is.  More of because the affects of my fighting of the system just lead me to a lackage in the sleepage department and a tendancy to buy all the food in the cafeteria during lunch. If i had the money, the chances of me consuming enough food to feed an army of famished bingers were as likely as the fact that we are all going to die. All because i stuck it to the man.  The hairy man.  However, since i can't change the past, all i have to say is this:  Thank god i'm not what i eat.  Because then i'd be sweet, bubbly, rainbow, and greasy.  Also known as an ugly cheerleader.

Okay, so i guess i care a little bit.  About the important things and stuff.  Like world peace and the abolition of poverty and whatnot.  Oh yea.  And the Yankee game tonight.  And Love and Breakfast and Courage and Starbucks.  And getting into a decent college and becoming a famous producer/screenwriter in LA.  And The OC. And my friends. And that there is always at least one pint of ice cream in the fridge.  But other than that? Nah.  Not a care in the world.

So basically, when all else fails and life-changing epiphanies just aren’t coming your way, eat breakfast.  That way you can say you accomplished something for the week.  This week, I didn’t talk to the new kid and suddenly have the sensation that there was a place for me in the world.  I didn’t furrow my brow at a crushed croton and think ‘Gee wow, that must be a metaphor for the meaning of being a confused teenager in high school’.  But yes, I ate my coco puffs this morning.  And by golly am I proud.