So I'm in study hall, right? My homework's done to the best of my ability, so my friend and I start talking quietly. We do this for about an hour of the period when suddenly:
"Excuse me, girls," the teacher whispers in a lilting yet irritating soprano, "this is not a social hour. You need to have something to do."
I glance around. No one seems disturbed by our talking - in fact, other people are talking, too. "I'm done with my work," I inform her. "I don't have anything to do."
"Then listen to your iPod."
"I don't own an iPod."
"Then be quiet."
Oh, fuck you, bitch. I'm not bothering anyone, I have no work to do, and I don't feel like sleeping, so unless you want me to start singing to myself loudly because that's what I do when I'm bored, I suggest you let me talk quietly to my friend.
That's what I want to say. Instead I stare her down and flip her off when she turns and walks away. "Fuck you," I mouth, breathing out the words with a hint of venom. "Fuck. You."
Of course, now she's killed the mood, so my friend and I sit around awkwardly before starting to write oneshots. Obviously, mine ends up being a documentation of my interaction with a dumbass teacher who needs to get a life. Or earplugs. Ooh, I know - how about her own damn iPod?
I would love to talk really loudly now just to piss her off. It's a study hall. It's not like it fucking matters.
Unfortunately, my ground-in good habits quash my natural rebellious streak (damn you parents - why did you do a good job?), so I continue to rant on paper. Maybe I can leave a nice pile of shit-colored slime (glue plus food coloring plus borax) on her desk chair for her to stain her pants on.
Anonymously, of course.
Clicky the button... not that there are results...
I am an alien trapped on this pathetic excuse of a planet among insolent human meatbags who don't speak my language and shy away from my so-called oddities.
Okay, so I'm not. But that's what I'm thinking as I look at my blue-stained hands and make the Vulcan salute at people I know in the school hall, earning me the usual small-grin-and-shake-of-head-at-Tori's-weirdness.
"What the fuck happened to your hands?" a guy whom I am familiar but not friendly with inquires.
"Food coloring from something I was handling. I feel like grabbing someone and going, 'Hola, take me to your leader.' "
"I thought you were auditioning to be a Smurf or something."
"Well, duh. I'm a Spanish alien Smurf from the planet Zyxl, an' I been hidin' out in this hizzouse chillin' a raid on yo' cookie factories, fo' shizzle."
"A gangsta Spanish alien Smurf from the planet Zyxl, huh?" He laughed. "You're weird, you know that?"
"Thank you, thank you, you're far too kind," I say, bowing dramatically before continuing to my next class. People all around me stare and whisper. I give them a cheerful Vulcan salute.
I am an alien trapped on this pathetic excuse of a planet among insolent human meatbags who don't speak my language and shy away from my so-called oddities. And you can kiss my shiny blue-stained ass if you don't like it, because there are people out there who do.
Clickamajig -->
I need a boyfriend.
That's what I think as I watch the newest obsessively romantic couple making out by my locker. I sneer at their love. Hear that, love?! I sneer at you! I sneer at love and its mother, and its mother's mother, too. Sneer, sneer.
I smack my forehead with my history textbook, earning myself some extra strange looks for the day. Is it too much to ask for one guy, one guy, who wants to date me? One who maybe doesn't think I'm a total psycho, or one who thinks I am a total psycho but thinks it's funny. Or anyone. I'm not picky. I mean, sure, I'm not that pretty, and sure, I'm kind of odd, but I have a lot of things going for me! I'm not hard to talk to, and I'm funny and loyal and smart and kind and goddamn do I sound like I'm talking about a dog.
But one guy - one guy - who understands that really I'm just not that social and that really I'm just a little lonely would be more than enough for me. I mean, yeah, I have friends who completely get me, and I adore them all and laugh my ass off when I'm with them, but I want that bf-gf connection, that strange bond that I have frequently seen grow and fade but never experienced.
Suddenly, I notice that the aforementioned newest obsessively romantic couple is engaging in a shouting match. The plastic blonde bitch-slaps the guy and stalks off to the comfort of her clique. And I can't help myself. "That looks like it hurt." He glares at me, but before he can walk away I add hastily, "No, I'm not trying to be mean. Just... it's turning kind of purple-y."
"Look, could you kindly go fuck yourself?" he snaps.
There's nothing I can say, really. It's not like I can go, "Do you want to talk about it? Really. I totally get that kind of stuff."
So I watch him stride off like he has somewhere to be, and I sigh, leaning against my locker and closing my eyes.
Just click it AHH AHH AHH AHH AHH -->
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