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Boys and Girls
Boys are separate from girls, obviously, and girls are separate from boys. However, if you are the intolerable reader whom has now become focused on the extension of skin, or lack of for that matter, between your legs, you are, merely, another representative of our contemptuous society. Disgusting in most eyes, but it is the false statements of individuals that lead us to believe in purity. Purity is a rarity at this age. We find that media venom and toxins of conformity stain the ages of adolescent purity leaking to younger and younger ages. “That is [not] alright,” society tells us. And what right does society have to tell us that when they refuse to act upon it? It is despicable. However, I refuse to criticize what I do not know to do, so instead, I have chosen to lay myself down amongst the stray dogs. I refuse to be a common house pet of the social order.
I was from the beginning ‘one of the boys.’ My parents, convinced I was a male, bought an entire collection of baby blue clothes and boy attire before the day I was born. I disappointed them with the moment of my delivery.
In kindergarten, I lacked a curiosity in playing in the petite blue club house with the dismembered babies and entirely naked, shaved, Barbie dolls. I can still recall the eyes of aversion and spits of gossip by girls sitting less than 5 feet away from me during the school day. My name was a reoccurring topic of imperfectness among young scarlet lips. Rather than owning a desire to be a mother I yearned to coat myself in the mud and dung gathered by collections of rain behind the swing set.
My 3rd year of grade school my parents got the unfortunate phone call that I had became victim of a fight. Rephrase; interrogator. My punch was the initial, and to no surprise did I fail to win. A boy comparable to a freight train was victorious in giving me what I had asked him for. Today I gaze deeply into his eyes and laugh at every single word he speaks, but my emotions are tasteless; there is no connection. The illustration of flirting my friends; I’m sure you’re quite familiar. I still can recall the expression printed to my mother’s face when she stepped into the office. I was sitting with a purity covered in my crimson disgusts of society leaking from nostrils. She said to me, “Can you not act like a girl for one day?” I shook my head no and asked the secretary for another tissue.
I began to change. As I evolved from the elementary and into the preparations for high school this…uncomfortable… attraction for the opposing sex, that I had merely known as my best of friends, began to generate. The boys felt it to. Things became uneasy between us, and I was changing. Physically and mentally. This sadly dropped this curtain causing me to loose the people I who were my minute alibis. Humanity had this enveloping element that I could not avoid. Our minds were led by what hunger festered amid our legs. This was not a problem, this is not a problem. Don’t worry, it happens to everyone. Society says other wise; they refuse to allow that publication. The awkwardness and extension of middle school was forcing a certain amount of conformity. I was becoming someone I did not want to be.
I dated, for lack of a more appropriate term, 3 boys in middle school. My best of friends of course. I did not date them; at least time would enhance that definition.
This definition was changed due to a certain speculation of a boy. A long, lanky, limbed boy with hands that swept past his knees. Fierce stately glasses framing his small ginger shaded eyes. A boy with orange eyes? I would have never imagined writing of a boy with orange eyes. Not typical. A soft, long, face with tender kissed of the sun. His lips patched with scarlet sowed skin that tasted of Coca-Cola each time they greeted mine. He was a drummer. He was a leader. He was a poet. He was a righter. He was a lover. He was a hater. He was gamer. He was a musician. He was composer. He was a genius. He was gentle. He was kind. He was blunt. He was a jerk. He was sweet. He was adorable. He was precious. He was lovely. He was a kisser. He was unimaginable. He was everything I ever sought after. He was my friend. He was my lover. He was my boyfriend. He was perfection. He was imperfection. And at the foundation of our tender infatuation I knew none of this. He knew what generated my laughter. He knew the best of me. He knew the worst of me. He continued to won acceptance. He challenged me. He taught me. He brought incredible amounts of joy and bliss into my heart. He took my flaws and embraced them. He loved each and everyone. He loved me. I loved him; even if words were failed to mention. We both spoke of it, but due to a lack of maturity decided it best to hold the words for safe keeping. I removed the infamous mask for you…only you. It will be a long time before I allow that mask to fall again. I’ve tied it with four additional knots as a substitute for one. He was my best friend, and now, he’s gone due to an ironic attraction. I’ve ceased my speculation for the opposite sex. And what breaths into my ear each and every night, hissing, licking its fangs and growling under its sinful breath as the blood falls, are the cynical words, “Why are things different now?”
I have always owned a lack of trust in both sexes, but my trust in boys is slithering out of my heart and my emotions are migrating to only god knows where. I’m becoming more familiar with this sense of numbness. I, in no form, wish to extend the hand of friendship any further. You see, no longer will I allow my ideal friendship with a man become unfortunately sabotaged by your desire for a relationship. Why can’t high school be like kindergarten? Why can’t you pretend I’m one of you again? Why is it I have to own this fashionable attraction toward you? And, at certain points in the manipulation of time, do I feel those again, however those feelings cannot come without this….emotion…one may feel for another. I loathe this characteristic sensation.
My heart ends up on the cold, frozen bathroom floor exposed to the grotesque infections of our barbaric world. It bleeds continuously as I watch it cry memories shared with you. With boys. Not the memories of kindergarten, of mud, of horrific coloring, or bleeding, but the memories in which I chose vulnerability towards you. When our noses were inches apart. When your immensely large hands digested my pale glass fingers. When your teeth would gleam after reading poetry I composed for you; inspired by you. When I allowed the tips of your fingers to explore the pecks of sun on my face. When your arms were barriers to my waist. When your lips lit internal passion with mine lik a match and its box. When all my fears and filth opinions of modern day were tangled among the thoughts of you and ceased to exist. This sense of vulnerability will cease to exist for quite an extensive amount of time.
I’m returning to the age of kindergarten. I’m going to get in a fight with a boy at school on Monday.
The earliest memory I can recall is at an age of about 3. I was the first born of 4 girls and was lacking this role model to be recognized as an older sister. The most comparable person who brought this element was a cousin less than 5 years older than I was. My first memory is odd. My older cousin grabbed my swelled fingers and portly hands leading me to the dried grass and deer beds behind her house. I was unfamiliar to the language she spoke of connected cooes and ahhs. She spoke to me as I fished the words I was capable of understanding, sssssstpshhhhhisssssss.
At that moment she squatted in a neatly made deer bed and pulled the waist band of yellow pants, stained with blood of dirt and grass, and I watched as urine appeared between her legs and splashed against the pillows of mammals. ooooommmmmonnnnnnn. She assisted me with pulling down my lavender shorts and pink pull-up. My first memory, as a girl, was urinating behind my beloved older cousin’s house in a fastened deer bed.
Whether it was grade school, middles school, or high school, the population of girls have always treated me in a fashionable way. I had a tendency to avoid them until the arrival of first grade. I met a girl who was similar to me. We are still best friends today. The reason for this is because we spend our weekends pulling all nighters with mountain dew and video games rather than staying up talking about every misfit and in-valid embarrassment to the female community. She is my best [guy] friend.
Why is it, at such a youthful age, girls need this degrading and belittling of other females to enhance feed there confidence? Are we really born with such an undersized amount of self esteem? It’s disgusting. Yet here, right now, I’m doing it. Degrading who I believe is the ‘viciousness’ and ‘germs’ of society to generate this feeling of superior ness to allow myself feel content. Ironic and pathetic.
I’m a girl. I’m disgusting. I’m overdramatic. I’m emotional. I’m angry. I’m happy. I’m needy. I’m selfish. I’m self-centered. I’m fragile. I’m gentle. I’m loved. I am a lover. I’m kind. I’m weak. I’m strong. I’m typical. I’m different. I’m short. I’m small. I’m conceded. I’m arrogant. I’m ignorant. I’m beautiful. I’m hideous. I’m an embarrassment. I’m a disappointment. I’m a girl. I gossip. I stand. I believe. I lie. I speak. I am silence. I’m sick. I’m happy. I’m scared. I’m a girl. I’m a girl. I’m hurt. I’m excited. I’m giddy. I’m jumpy. I’m a leader. I’m inspirational. I’m a hipster. I’m a poet. I’m a writer. I’m an author. I’m a musician. I’m a singer. I’m a girl. Not a woman, however a foolish young adolescent aged girl.
I have, besides the exception for a little less than 5 girls, absolutely no quantity of reliance for any female. They have slithered there way into my psyche and strained me to do too many things I have earned dreadful consequences from. They lie. They cheat. They can never keep secrets. By no means enlighten a girl with the power of a secret; unless, however, she is a boy.
I lost my one and only love due to the curiosity and stupid ness of ‘girl friends.’
I hope they never endure the pressures and anxiety they caused me to suffer from. They have cause life long scars. No, not the physical scars. The scars upon memories, the scars of my swelled heart…
Hundreds of girls have hurt me…
Boys are not gross. Boys are exceptional. Boys are extraordinary.
Girls are gross. Girls have supplementary power to obliterate a human being.
Boys do not cause the dramatics; the girls are the tailors. They afflict themselves with there own pain. Sewing countless numbers of blood stained needles into their skin rather than allowing themselves to focus on priority and sew the necessary clothes.
I hate girls.
I loathe them more than boys.
What I detest the mainly however, is that I’m of that classified variety and allocate myself to reach the expectations of the contemporary.
The girls section is a lot shorter due to the fact I have barley any words of joy to compare to them. The girls I trust, you know who you are.