You know that stressful feeling you get when you have a thirty page paper due in seven hours, and you haven't even started?
That amazing sense of pressure. That blissful state of motivation. Action. Motion. Movement. Purpose. I love it. I love it so much.

 

Most AP students are stressed and hate it. But I'm relaxed. And apathetic. So when I feel the stress of that paper... urging me, yelling at me, to get going, get typing, hurry, hurry, before I run out of time...! And the hours tick by. And I feel tired and triumphant. And I feel excited- I feel like I'm stealing cookies and getting away with it. Typing my ass-long report until the time I usually wake up. And finally! I sleep for an hour. And turn it in the next day... My gorgeous paper, fed off of stress and pride and work work work. Hours and hours all in a row with no stop.

A procrastinator to the fullest. And DAMN! I'm both ashamed and proud. Abashed of it, yet blatant to the world. Fearful that it should eat me up, and spit me out. That I'll fail. That I'll lose. But perpetually excited. Wired. Electrified.

I'm terrible. I lie. I hate it. I love it. It's amazing.

Am I unusual? I have never met anyone who feels the same way. I must be. ...I must be.
But it's not a defect.
No. It's just different.
And maybe it's looked down upon. And I've gotten screwed over before by it. Failed tests. Gotten poor grades on papers.

...but I'm not altogether convinced that I would have done any better otherwise.
Even though I'm probably lying to myself right now.

And my heart seizes up. My teeth clench. My common sense rallies against my stubborn id. I still have a paper to type. Right now.
But I'm still typing this.
I feel devious. Rebellious. Stupid. I can feel my blood running through my body. I want to dance. I want to sing. I want to stall. More. I want to keep on. Stalling. Stalling. Stalling. Swaying. Singing. Slacking. Smiling. Something. I want to type my paper. But not just yet. Not yet. Soon.

The paper. It's meaningless. There's no point. Except to develop my research skills and writing skills. But the paper itself? Worthless. Meaningless. Pointless. Stupid. No one should waste their life writing literary critiques. It takes all the joy out of the simple act, the simple art of reading. Then, a perverse enjoyment comes from reading the ends of books first and deconstructing an artist's work. I would rather die than have someone read this post and think "Oh, look! Alliteration! The author uses that to contribute to her purpose! The 'S's are serpentine, like snakes, which in Western culture alludes to the Bible in which a snake is the incarnation of Satan. She therefore wants to convey that she is feeling devilish and evil and tempted by her own desires to do ill." Perhaps I just did it to seem clever. But even that isn't true.
Why did I use alliteration? Because I damn well felt like it, that's why.

Over-reading, over-thinking, over-analyzing! Has this world of my gone only so far as to bring about the end to the purpose of art? What am I arguing?! How does my syntax contribute to my theme?! What is my theme!? Figure it out! Go, go! Hurry now, the clock it ticking! If you don't figure it out, you will fail! You'll get a 3 on your essay for misreading!

If I had known that English was so hard, I would never have taken AP. But that's a lie.
I should never have learned from my parents this useless language.
I should have refused to communicate. I should have developed amazing charades and grown on and on and on.
Because after all, if I can't tell you how I think outright, what's the point of learning a language at all?
Life is just a game of charades. Even if I type this, you can never truly and wholly understand exactly my meaning. Even if I were a great writer. A celebrated writer. God!
How many interpretations does that Bible have!? If even God cannot be comprehended...! Nor the Founding Fathers! Nor Pearl S. Buck! J.K. Rowling! E.B. White! Bobby Henderson! There is no POSSIBLE way you can fully understand me! All you can get is glimpses and pieces of what I mean. Then you construct it all up in your mind and sew it all together, trying to understand from your limited mind my limited ideas.

I'm amazing. I am a god.
But there are no gods.

So I don't exist. And neither do you. And neither does this paper I must type.
Nothing matters. We're all going to die. I am going to die.
Why even bother typing this paper? Why not just kill myself now?

Why not?

I have been brainwashed by society.
That is 'why not.'
And I'm not explaining it either.
Noodle it out, human. Any answer may come with enough thought and giving up. Yet, where there's smoke, there's fire.
Have I used parallelism, yet? If I have, then I must have two purposes. Hurry. Noodle, noodle.

Now, I'm peaceful.
And I don't want to type.
Especially my paper.
Which is only getting more due.

I should start. I should.
I should. Shouldn't I?

Get this stress out of my life. Then do something great and amazing. But that's a lie.
There is never free time. As soon as I finish this paper, I have to study for the AP English Examination.
Then I have to type another paper. Or rather, more of the same one.
And I can't forget my other five classes.

And at the end of the school year... will I be free then? No. I have summer school.
And then what? Senior year. Even more packed than Junior.
And then? Full tilt into college.

I only want to go to college because I have been forced. My dream job requires that I get my major.
My dream job is living in a third-world country, where I'll happily live with bigoted, stupid, small-minded people who I won't be able to communicate with due to the language barrier. And I could have been so good at charades.
And no sanitation. I may not be the most sanitary of people, but I do enjoy it. No toilet. No hot water. Two years. Or, if I'm suicidal enough, more.
Perhaps I shall die by the age of 40? Probably.
And these countries are dangerous.
This. This is my dream job.
Must I go to college for it? I must. So I will. Or I'll get rejected and end up working at a fast-food joint.
The ultimate motivator.
I don't understand why people are so against fast-food.
I actually do. I just don't care.

I am definitely not a good writer. I would never get a Pulitzer.
See? I've typed about stuff which does NOT contribute to my theme.

At least I don't always take myself so SERIOUSLY. I mean, for goodness' sake, how can anybody? We're all so ridiculous! And yet our egos eat away at our hearts until we feel we're special. Better.
I'm better than all of you. I've come to realize that I can conquer the system. I can break away from society. I can be free.
I just choose to stay here. Just a little longer. Just play the game until...

I can make my great escape.

I'm so stupid.
But I'm genius.
Never ingenious.
I steal all my ideas.
I just think that I come up with them.

Classifying yourself is stupid.
I'm not white. I'm not American. I'm not a girl.
These are all fucking labels.
I refuse to sit in the margins and define, label myself to your liking.

The other week, my teacher asked us to define ourselves. I couldn't do it. I didn't want to. I have issues.

I want to go insane. Psychotic. Schizophrenic.
I want the world to break into a musical number and never stop.
I want to see alternate realities.
I want fiction to come alive.
I want to keep wanting. Always. Forever.
I want to need.
I want to sing and dance and paint and imagine and be amazing.
I want everyone to care about me. To think I'm amazing.
But I don't want to care what they think.
I want to dress insane and have people not give me a second glance.
I want to scribble markers all over my wall.
I want to be as skinny as David Bowie when he lived off of cocaine and skim milk.
I want hair dye that will stay vibrant and hair that never gets dirty.
I want to be less materialistic.
I want to be one with nature.
I want to fly.
I want to fly away.
I want everyone to hate me. That way I can die and people will be happy.
I want everyone to love me. But that's a lie.
I hate love.
I love Love.
I am asexual.

I do not feel any attraction to the opposite sex.
I do not feel any attraction to the same sex.
I do not feel any attraction to any human. To any animal. To any idea.

I feel romance.
I feel compassion.

I do not feel attraction.

And I am not defected. There is nothing wrong with me. I am simply different from you.
"So, Bridget, are there any boys you like?"
"No."
"Oh, come on. You can tell us! We won't tell anyone!"
"I don't like anyone that way..."
"Please tell us!"
"But I don't li-"
"I don't believe you. Come on, everybody likes someone!"
"I don't like anyone."
"Not even a crush?"
"No."
"Fine, don't tell us then. We won't confide in you either."

Is it so hard to believe? I know what I'm talking about. I've read all about asexuality on Wikipedia.
You may laugh now. But I have thought about it extensively. And if some relationship sprouts under my nose, I won't stubbornly hold onto my label. I'm fine with relationships. With kissing. With sex.
I will not be bothered if I turn out to like men.
I will not be bothered it I turn out to like women.
I will be bothered if I turn out to like animals.
I will find it funny if I turn out to be a narcissist.

I have had two boyfriends. One of them grossed me out. He was a friend. I do not think that he ever brushed his teeth.
The other, I hated. I went out with him because I was curious. He called me a prude.

I find it funny now. Poor suckers. The jerk. I broke a heart. I avoid mistakes after they have already happened.

I liked conjunctions. But now I use them only occasionally.

There is no theme to this post. Thought the reader might like to know. Any use of aphorisms is unintentional.
Screw literary criticism.
This post better not be too long.

I don't really want to die.
I want to live.
But not like this. I am pressured by society. Processed by the machine. Limited by my language. I don't even understand myself.
I want to live. Really live. I want to go out on an adventure. Experience. I want to be amazing, in and of itself.
Fuck the rules.
Structure is there for a reason.
But I care less and less as every day goes by.

I hope I die before I get old.

I already know that in five years, I might look back on this writing and think: "What an idiot I was."
I know.
I am like that.
Changing.

I already know that I am an idiot. I can take the easy way out and blame the frontal lobe of my brain which is still forming. It wants me to do crazy things. It wants me to keep typing here and never get to my English paper.

I can feel my heart beating. I am alive.
I am hungry. It makes me feel alive.
I do not want to eat. But I always do. Food tastes good.
I understand my friend now. I love her. She probably never thinks about me.
I hate gossip.
But I heard through the grapevine that she participates in sleazy acts.
I am proud of her.

I do not have sex only for the reason that it disgusts me. But only for me. I even hate kissing.
I like romance. I hate fake stuff though. I hate boxes of chocolate and teddy bears and balloons. I especially hate jewelry.
I hate gifts. Don't buy me any. Please. Love is not equivalent to stuff. Stuff is not romance.
My friend happens to hate romance. But she loves sex.
She found herself a boy who feels the same.
I find nothing wrong here.
She also broke my other friend's heart.
But she is jerk. She has had a screwed up childhood. And he'll get over it. Eventually.
Maybe five years.
I love him.
He is amazing.
You can cry on his shoulder and he will comfort you.
But he is useless. He is annoying. He is a jerk too.

Everyone is a jerk. Everyone.
I should get used to it.
I am a jerk.
I don't know why anybody hangs out with me.
I am useless too.

I am insecure. I hate myself. I think I am fat. I think that I am ugly.
I am not truly good at anything. I am not even a jack-of-all-trades.
All I can type about with ease is myself.

If you ask anyone, they will tell you otherwise.
But they don't know.
I can't be understood so simply. Let me quote myself.

"I am a person.
A person I am.
I know what I'd die for
but living is different.
What am I?
Who am I?
Anything said
is only figments
of the mind.
Not even I
can judge myself.
There is no one who can
truly comprehend me
truly comprehend you
truly understand anything at all.
It is labels
and all relative.
There is no 'is'.
All is perspective.
Describe perspective.
Who am I?
You tell me.

Who am I to you?
How do you see me?
How does anyone see me?
I am a different person
in each others' minds.
I am a structure
containing billions upon billions
of atoms, cells, and more
I am a whole
a group
a collective of
ideas
concepts
sensations
emotions
experiences.
I am a single being.
I have a spirit
a soul- if you will.
A personality
that changes
and flexes
and flows with time.
A pattern
inconsistent
and always reacts in a way
I want.
Except for when its
OUT OF CONTROL.

I have told you everything
and at the same time
I have managed
to tell you nothing at all."

Yin and Yang.
We all have them.
I do not understand how you all find it so easy to define yourselves.
So trite.
"Hi, I'm Bridget. My favorite color is blue and I like cats."
Do you know me yet?
"Hello, my name is Bridget. I'm confident, fun, and zany!"
Do you know me?
"Nice to meet you! I'm Bridget McGovern. I'm a democratic American. I like art."
You must know me by now!
"Hey, I'm Bridget. My deepest, darkest secret is that... I lie. About doing my homework. Because I don't actually do it when I say I am."
Oh, my! We must be close to who I am now!
"What's up? I'm Bridget. I HAVE looked at porn before. It did nothing for me."
Yikes! How immoral! And only 16!
"Nice weather we're having... I'm Bridget. I won't remember your name the next time we meet."
But I'm not ashamed.
"Um... I'm... um... Gwenetta. I have a huge paper due in 5 hours. I haven't started yet."
Whoops! Would you look at the time! I DO have a huge paper due. Golly.

Do you know me yet?
Yes?
Good. Tell me who I am, because I do not. Who am I?

Fuck you. I refuse to be labeled. But that's a lie.
I took the AP test. I bubbled in "white". I bubbled in "female".
I've told you that I am asexual.
I've told you that I am Bridget.

I'm not "Bridget". I am called "Bridget".

I am only myself. What is "myself"?
A label.
I lose this game that is not a game.

Why even bother? It is just a fucking grade.
Who decided that grades and GPAs define our intelligence?
I am stupid. But I am smart enough to try and deconstruct who I am.
At the very least, I will not lie to myself without admitting it. Without not realizing it.

At the very least...

And will I type that paper? Of course I will.
You know that. You know me, right?
I can't take a fail.
If I do, I'll cry.
If I do, I won't get my dream job.
If I do, I'll hate myself.
If I do, I'll fall deeper into apathy.

Everything I do. Everything I think. Everything I feel.
All directly influenced by everything I don't.
By society.
By what society has labeled me.

I don't feel real.
Everything is fake.
Everything is selfish. There is no such thing as selflessness.
I don't believe.
I don't believe in me. In you. In your dogma. In your reality.

Let's be open-minded together.
I love you.
All of you.
I even love what I hate about you.
I hate you.

But you hate me too.
And you love me too.

Let's be amazing together.