Bust Out

School is trying to kill me. Shitloads of work, and so little of it involves actual learning. Call me crazy, but I figured out how to learn by second grade. So were the Educational Overlords to say to me, "learn this" I could, and I could learn it well, and probably enjoy myself. But no, they say "do this shit, and do it my way, or you will die poor and hungry in the gutter."

So far, I've taken some notes on The Deer Park, finished an essay I'm not at all proud of but can't figure out how to fix/improve/make not a steaming pile of shit. Now there's just a debate I didn't know was Monday, and motherfucking chemistry. Motherfucker.

I need to get some tattoos or something. Maybe ritual scarring. Something that hurts and leaves a mark. A visual "don't fuck up" or something. I think it says something about me that I have two feet of scars on my chest and I still think I need more.

Twisted as it is, I often feel like I need to suffer more than I do to deserve how well my life goes. I've been very statistically lucky. When I look at other people like me, I realize how lucky I am and it scares me. Fuck, even teenagers in general, forget people like me.

Mr. Whitman wants me to give the GSA a pep talk before we do those damn peer education workshops. He says they look up to me. I hope they never end up like me. I'm bitter and cranky and evil, entirely because I got fucked over. They look up to my experience, but I hope they don't think they need it. Nobody should get hurt like I did, nobody should feel like I've felt, and honestly, I don't think anyone should look up to me. I'm evil.

Listening to The Cherry Poppin' Daddies much too loud. It's sort of helping. But then, it's clear I shouldn't be allowed near the Internet when I can't sleep.

Evil Tranny, off to bang my head into the Internet.