Old Teenage Angst

I found this tucked away in an old notebook. I have been going through these types of things lately because we moved not too long ago, and so this kind of thing keep popping up. Approximate date: April 15, 1997. Yeah, it's that old. Read. Laugh if you must.


You think because of my looks that I am unimportant; that what is inside my head is just as worthless, just as deformed, just as imperfect, just as ugly. My thoughts do not extend past today's lesson in U.S. History or when my next meal will be. I concern myself only with trivial matters of self-indulgence; perhaps a thesis on animal rights or what frosting goes best on chocolate cake. I am not "idea" in physique; therefore I am not meant to be included in mainstream pastimes, such as enjoying a good piece of music, getting drunk off my ass, admiring..."Boys"; or even possessing a sex drive. It must horrify you to think that someone like me could even think about sex, could even feel the same desires, the same wants, the same needs. Would it so disgust you to see me being affectionate, perhaps even attempting to be naked for some other reason than a doctor's physical? I cannot fall in love: I already know that I am so horrendous that no one will ever want me; this keeps me from having emotions, from instinctively reaching for human contact. I am riding on the edge of humanity; soon I will evolve into something alien; exactly what does not matter, as long as I am not included as one of your kind. "A biological mistake" is all that is written on that sticky piece of paper that reads: "Hello, My Name Is..." I cannot be hurt by physical pain, I feel not the insults, the shortcomings, the imperfections. All I long for is recognition and acceptance. I want nothing more than to be the same. I cannot experience loneliness or depression or desperation. Remember, being a monster in appearance, I am void of emotion. And if I express an opinion, it is discounted as ridiculous because my hips are wide and my thighs rub together when I walk.