I don’t even know where to start. Well, Monday I tried on her glasses, Tuesday I watched her try and put her leg behind her head, then moan about her arthritis and how flexible she used to be. Then there was the conversation involving bestiality and maggots.
Today there was the incident involving the table. I can’t even begin to… Oh my god.
Oh and the thing with the 35 year old guy. Eww.
Art is a test of strength, not mental, not physical. Just strength. Because we all contribute to each other’s madness. I doubt it’s intentional; it’s just our way. We can’t change.
I learned the great lesson that glitter and Styrofoam are the STDs of the art world. That fact will really come in handy some day.
Life is a series of events where I try to shield myself from the perverted freaks and end up becoming one myself. I guess it can’t be avoided.
High school: all the things you hate about your life spawned into reality. It's a bit like an acid trip, but only some of the people are on drugs. The noise can get deafening, time seems to freeze, and, of course all the equally annoying things you learn to ignore. They kind of become the melody of daily life; buzzing, slamming, people talking at, instead of to each other. The reminds me, have you noticed the temperature is never comfortable? It's like a real version of Goldilocks without the talking bears.
This education, deemed necessary, becomes a place to practice your survival tactics, in a manner of ways. You rush through it half-heartedly, oblivious at times, often intentionally.
It becomes a way to numb yourself through.
If you do stop for a moment, say, as a way to take as long as possible to get to your next class, you begin to notice the things you tune out. Graffiti, unidentifiable substances, and mysterious odors, suddenly spring out at you, as if waiting in the shadows for you to notice them. Then you spy the sicking glare of the fluorescent lights on the tile. You question why they bothered to use tile in the first place. Cost effective, or as a way to enhance the dungeon-esqe feel?
You suddenly snap out of your reverie because some oaf with an over-active pituitary gland slams into you and, without hesitation, continues on his way.
The joys of daily life.
So you advance to class, with your newly bruised shoulder. You couldn't care any less about this class, but you care about school so you attend it. So you sit slouched and listen to a man as old as the history you're learning about, talk about something you don't need to know. Shifting a bit, the seat won't give. Oh, right! No freedom to move in those horrid desk-chair offspring. Something guaranteed to drive you mad.
Or has it already happened?
Cynical. That's how I'd describe myself in three words or less.
I observe though, I sit and I watch. or I crack jokes that get the nerdy kids to smile.
I don't forward to anything and no, I'm not suicidal, abused, or anything for that matter. I like to think of myself as someone you can never place, free and fluid. Perhaps it's just my aspiration. I'm everything you find written on a bathroom wall, in rumors and in practice. Random philosophies you create when you are too bored to focus.
I'm sorry I don't fit into your teenage stereotype. I'm just who I want to be, I shock, I amaze, and I scare the hell of out people. It gives me my kicks.
Yes, I'm still wincing under the glare of the flourescent lights, one of the few things that will forever remain stationary.
That oaf who crashed into me, I saw him again today in the hall. He near knocked over a freshman. Poor kid. And of course, he kept going like nothing happened. I hope karma bites him in the ass. Yea, I sound cold. Whatever. Can't be bothered with self reflecting. There are too many tests for that. Ha! Standardized tests are to blame for society's inability to give a shit. Sorry, I'm in a weird mood. Weirder than usual, not that you can tell.
I envy the people who complain they are boring. I don't view normalcy as boring. You are jealous of what you don't have, I don't have anything normal affiliated with me, thus, I long for it.
There ain't nothing like my friends. The art freaks. I have this love-hate relationship with them. Lately, they have only been able to make my queasy. It's nice being able to have an innuendo free conversation. That's not the case with this bunch. Then again, and and insanity seem to naturally go hand-in-hand.
I wonder if it's possible to be creative and not cut your ear off. Okay, so maybe not that drastic, but you get the idea. All the famous artists were insane, and then became famous after they died. So I guess that' my plan. I didn't really have a say in it, it seems predetermined. I'm to paint melting clocks, with my moustache, which might me difficult to grow considering my gender. Then I die poor.
You are wondering why I talk this way about art? Well, I have already told you I'm cynical. Mix that with my freak friends (and yes, they admit to it) and you are left with a putrid mess.
Madness is amusing though. I don't know what to think though. I have no flipping idea, and society is telling me I should be taking the SATs and thinking about college. I can't even remember what I had for breakfast!
You're not listening are you?
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