Autumn is the time of year that makes me want to cut my hair and be a better person. Fall—like the leaves from the trees, and fly with the fresh, sweet, biting wind until I land myself somewhere I want to be. Somewhere where being a teenager doesn’t suck, you actually ever get where you’re trying to go, and you’re not either too young or too old to do what you want. But, you know, I’m 15—my time might be better spent writing emo poetry about how much I hate my life, doing drugs, or pretending like all the things I have and will continue to experience for the sake of ‘growing up’ and ‘being cool’ are all sort of thrillingly fun, and not more like electroshock therapy. Occasionally I decide that I’ll just grow up to be one of those adults who sigh a lot and say ‘Well… when I was young… I made a lot of mistakes,’ and ‘don’t smoke.’ In actuality I’m too vain for that, though, too condescending.

When I was a young child I decided that adults were so boring because they’d already tried everything, and decided it was a bad idea. So they just stayed put, felt bad about things I didn’t understand, said they were too tired, and did things ‘later’ or ‘sometime other time.’ Then I got older and couldn’t understand why adults didn’t like opening presents in front of people, or got embarrassed when I would talk about money, or how much things cost. I would get angry because they were aloud to swear, and I wasn’t. Adults all seemed so slow to me. Like I had to stand behind them poking them with a stick to get them to move. That didn’t change when I got older, though. I keep my stick handy.

And now I’m even older, and I know all about the things I’m not supposed to talk about, or think about, or like, or know. I stand in bemusement staring at the people who I went to elementary school with thinking to myself: who would have known that you’d grow up to be like this? Maybe they’re thinking that about me, too.

I remember when my little brother, Isaac, was born almost two years ago. The day he was born I remember secretly praying that he would be a boy, so he wouldn’t have to grow up a female in this society. Not that all teenage girls cut themselves, are anorexic or bulimic, have awful self-confidence and body image, and are disgustingly objectified by males, but a lot of them are. I have known and cared about many girls who succumbed to that sort of attitude towards themselves and, often, the world. I have spent days and nights trying to coax them, cajole them, convince them, change them—anything, anything to make them believe otherwise. I didn’t ever want my little sister to be among them. I see in my peers so many things I hope my baby brother won’t be. I hope he won’t grow up to have masculinity issues, and call a girl a **** for every time he feels foolish or belittled. I hope he won’t get in fights and tell about them braggingly like they make him tough and strong; dominant. I hope he doesn’t do drugs because all he feels is apathy and all he sees around him are people who expect nothing more of him, or far too much. I hope he’s not afraid to cry.

I live in my own bubble, with my own sorrows and ecstasies (as well all do), and at times I feel powerless over my own mind, my own emotions and thoughts and actions and desires. And I look up and out and I see faces mirroring my own, as if we’re all spinning, twirling out of control—desperate without realizing it, gravitating towards something, something, something—far too preoccupied with life’s trivialities to realize, understand, take a moment to let it sink in.

I believe that everyone wants to stand in a crowded room and scream sometimes. I believe that everyone wants to say something completely honest that makes people’s jaws drop along with the glasses they’re holding. I believe that everyone feels a painful itch to go up to someone and tell him or her a completely rude, socially unacceptable truth, which only a little kid would voice aloud. One who’s far too visceral and ignorant to know that that’s just not what we sophisticated, cultured humans do. I believe that everyone wants to grab someone by the shoulders sometimes, shaking them and shouting, ‘HELLO, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? IS THERE ANYBODY IN THERE?’ Followed by expletives, and maybe a good slap to shock them awake.



This is the freaking 21st century. Has society ever been more twisted? No, really, I’m 15, remember? I don’t know these things. I do know that you’re not aloud to be racist anymore, though. But you know what? I am racist. And you are, too. Everyone’s a little racist sometimes. A little sexist—ageist—triumphalist—etc.
Blind people—maybe they’re not racist. I mean, who knows?

Like Ferris Bueller says “Not that I condone fascism, or any "ism" for that matter. "Isms" in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an "ism", he should believe in himself. I quote John Lennon: "I don't believe in Beatles, I just believe in me." Good point there. After all, he was the Walrus. I could be the Walrus. I'd still have to bum rides off of people.”