Why am I here? What specifically do I have that the world needs? Am I doomed to be a tired, prematurely aged face in the masses of reasonably successful or not so successful malcontents? And more importantly, who the hell am I?
Today I realized that my life is completely devoid of passion or direction. I have no great love, it would seem. I am relatively bright, but not Borges, Einstein, Dickens, or Allegra Rosenberg. Is there anything about me that isn't phenomenally mediocre? I have no great skills or talents. My face is more often than not, a dermatological Sarajevo. My friends are infinitely more charming and interesting than myself. Mr. Rogers and almost every adult who has been responsible for me have told me I was special. But what the fuck does that mean? We live in a world where all the children must be above average. Being average, to me, has always been a far more terrifying threat than actual failure. This is why I've spent so much time trying to be as unique as was possible without having to face lynching or therapy. But, where has it gotten me? The percentage of people I can even begin to relate to is some sad, weak, incalculable number. As long as I can remember, I pick away at people's character flaws until they are totally written off, never again to be considered real human beings. Well, this is not quite true. I am more irritating than actually cruel. But in this militant be-true-to-your-inner-self-ness, I have gotten absolutely fucking nowhere. I have no more idea who I really am than somebody I've never met. So there you have it. I haven't escaped angst, predictability, or self-loathing, despite all my deploration of emo and self-mutilation. I hereby declare that I don't know shit.

All who read this are obligated to answer this question. I know it's quite shallow, but I love these hypothetical things. What celebrity (dead or alive) would you most like to be stuck in an elevator with? My answer: Peter Sarsgaard. I can't really explain why I have such a massive crush on him.

Poetic license

Awesome idea for halloween: Get a cardboard box. Cut a square hole in it, and draw on it and label it so that it is clear that it is an oven. Wear something blousy and feminine. And loafers. Put the box on your head. Voila! Sylvia Plath! Its almost as good as an abortion table.

Chromosomes on strike

It has come to my attention how gross and graphic my posts have been. I didn't even realize how much that shit occupies my brain. Hmm... I really am no good at being a girl. But I don't have the gay-man-trapped-in-a-woman's body syndrome, and I've never even really been a tomboy. I'm absolutely straight, but not the super-femme tampon-head that would have been required for me to be truly girly. When I think of girls, I involuntarily shudder. But it's getting late, and my head feels like Chernobyl. So its off to the land of drugged up spin the bottle and plaid couches for me.

When God made the world, he clearly wasn't paying attention

I don't think people often realize just how weird seals are. No, seriously. Think about it. They are like fish with mammaries that flop around on glaciers, fornicating and eating penguins. Maybe some people's uncles do this. Comments?

I'd like to be a big fat, fucking fly

Today was so odd. I felt like a really small bug being crushed by corporate America. Except Joe and Krissy and Allie and I were all bugs huddled together, about to be obliterated by the ugly, expensive sneaker of capitalism. Actually, today wasn't bad. It was nice to leave home. But I really do like my house. If my house could be transplanted to East Village or something, that would be fine with me. I always like coming back home. I just don't really like stepping outside my house, or having hordes of smelly junior high kids on my lawn because the sidewalk was too difficult to walk on. I know, I could be living in Zambia, having to contract AIDS just so I could feed the kids who I had already been forced to have, I could be a burn victim, I could be one of those Masai boys who has to get circumcised much too late in life, I could be a certain really fullofit drama cuntbag . (Sorry, I know if you're reading this, you are probably really sick of my ranting about her. I am not going to type her name, in order to avoid having my entrails ripped out if she ever Googles herself.) I could be Alan Keyes' lesbian daughter. Instead, I have food to eat, loving parents, no horrifying initiation ceremony to go through (does AP Calc count?) I'm not even really that ugly. So why do I always feel so fucking hopeless?
Oh, how I loathe the corporations.

The meaning of life, or something

The fact that humans consider themselves so far above naked mole rats is just appaling. We are just bigger naked mole rats with better cosmetics.

Love, hate, and pharmaceutical contraception

I can never decide whether I love or hate my English teacher. I think he loves himself enough that any more admiration would be completely superfluous. He seems to take for granted that we all think he is just the coolest guy ever. He loves me, as every English teacher I've had since the beginning of time has. I just pull things out of my ass, and they fall all over themselves. I wrote a poem in about ten minutes than made my mother cry, and that she didn't stop talking about for a week. Which I would publish right here, except it would invariably end up in the wrong hands.
Flossmoor is a self-important, overrated, nauseating place. I can't stand the cute little town I grew up in. On a scale from one to freedom-hating terrorist, how unAmerican does this make me?

Peter the Great just ripped out my bicuspid!

I have succumbed to the peer pressure, and now have a blog. Now I can talk about how deep and alone in the world I am, and then convieniently name-drop some names that might have impressed some really unimaginative people in junior high, but now just give you a headache to even read. Or I can bore you until you plot to blow up my mom's minivan. Whoa, I have a lot of power. I can subliminaly mold you to become obnoxiously intellectual Midwestern teenage jihad-ers. Thank you blogger, for this source of obscenely unqualified power. I will think of you next time I sacrifice a 500-pound bull.