To do this correctly, I suppose I should start with my first and last name. However, I am not Holden Caulfield, so my approach on this happens to go another way compared to the average, neurotic, angsting teenager. Of course, that’s not entirely true either. Since, as much as I myself, and every counselor to ever speak to me tells me I’m “special,” I am perfectly aware of the harsh reality, that I’m not. Sure, mayhaps my little ticks are slightly altered compared to the girl who sits next to me in fifth block. No doubt about it that maybe I like spinach, and she doesn’t. However, at the end of the day, like all other adolescents, I am either content, or not. Being content means that I am okay with everything, at ease; at peace. Being uncontent, or in more correct terms, unhappy, means just the opposite. Nothing is okay, my life is a train wreck, crashing cars in my brain, hell on earth, or all of the above. As a sixteen year old with the stress level of over 900, it’s generally under the not category. No complaints though. Life, after all, is life, no matter who I am, or what approach I take on life at.

Becoming “Angelica” isn’t hard. In my opinion, at least. Granted, I only feel this way about 25% of the time I’m conscious. The other 75% I spend complaining, fighting myself on a war field called my cerebrum. In fact, the war even goes on while I’m unconscious. As it turns out, my dreams happen to pick up on my stress level and the relentless ranting more than my conscious thoughts do. What an unfortunate turn of events, right? Even my dreams won’t let me forget these things I call my troubles. Nightemares of failing tests, unfinished homework, catty girl fights with yelling, and way too well manicured, but painful nails digging into my arms, along with disappointed, eyebrows furrowed, frowning faces flash before me constantly. Unhappy nightmares for the unhappy girl. See, my troubles are like a bear. Not in the sense that they’re scared, and I’m constantly trying to run away from them for fear that they’ll swallow me whole or anything. More in the way that if I ever were to be camping, and a bear just happened to be stopping by, raiding all my supplies, I’m sure that it would be all up in my face in the most annoying way. However, believe it or not, there’s more to me than just a complaining little girl.

Generally speaking, compared to the tan skinned, booty shorts and see through shirts wearing, with neon colored push up bras lifting up breasts of other underage females I call my peers, I enjoy convincing myself that I’m intelligent, amongst many other redeeming qualities. However, I don’t want to be a social piranha in the jungle of high school, therefore, thankfully for me, I’ve gotten amazing at feigning my... well, everything. Exchanging words with faux friends is a bit like eating lunch to me. Minus the part where I enjoy myself, or find myself full and satisfied. During every day conversation with a dear fellow student of mine, I’ve learned to put on a big smile, nod every now and then, say things like, “yeah?” or, “no way!” and my personal favorite, “that’s so crazy.” Believe me, it’s so crazy. I love hearing about how many jello shots a friend consumed over the weekend, almost as much as I love running into walls. Almost.

Aside from my obvious lack of interest in just about everything, sarcastic, borderline rude manner, constant single lips pressed in a thin line expression, sleepy, half closed eyes, ( which really are heavy from lack of sleep, not just because I’m Asian, despite popular belief ) or my constant bad habits, like chewing my lips raw, rubbing my eyes red, and giving everyone the stink eye, while I secretly ( or sometimes not so secretly ) judge them, I’m a rather decent person. I donate money to several charities, do plenty of community service, do all my homework before midnight, on most nights, anyways, shower everyday, give and accept compliments, and keep most of my snide remarks to myself. Does being a somewhat mediocre good person make me content? I suppose so. However, I secretly believe that humans all want to be acknowledge as good hearted people. So, again, does it make me content being a mediocre good person, someone who isn’t praised or acknowledge for good deeds that can be done by another average person? Not exactly. Because I, much alike to many others, though they won’t admit it, want to be recognized for the things that I have done. It makes me feel good about myself, and gives me a sense of great self satisfaction. When I help an old lady across the street (which I’ve done before) I want someone on the side of the road to notice, and say, “Hey kid! Way to be!” and I’ll respond saying, “Thank you, sir! way to be you, too!” Unfortunately this isn’t a regular occurrence in my life, because instead, the man on the street doesn’t notice, and it leaves a bitter taste in my throat, while I have to bite back from telling him, “Hey I just did something good, what are you doing with your life?”

How do I feel today? That’s a difficult question to answer, since I’m never really sure how I’m feeling. Sometimes it’s a good feeling, it leaves me bubbling over, excitement breaching through my every fiber, enthusiasm bursting at the seams. Other times, it’s something inexplicable, my actions slow down, I go quiet, and snap at people easily, become annoyed faster, become disappointed faster. In the words of another coming of age teenager, “I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be.”