Seeing Red

On the last day of school for the semester, I was approached by my English teacher (we'll call her Ms. S) about being an MC for the school's annual commencement day. Of course, being who she is, Ms. S started off with the question, "Did you go to last year's commencement day?"

Obviously not... the damn thing was held in Cheras for the love of cats! I can neither drive yet, had the time or the inclination to go all the way to Cheras on a weekend night to spend hours upon dribbling hours staring into the twilight zone/sleeping with my eyes open. The fact that no one would send me there also played a small part in the decision to skip the damn thing altogether.

Of course, I didn't say that to her. I just answered with a polite, "No." Big mistake. She went on and on and on and on about why that's such a stupid thing to do, given that it's a "very important school event". Yes, yes, and Santa Claus happens to be gay and is shagging the damn Easter Bunny every Thursday night and twice on Sunday afternoons.

I patiently, or as patiently as I could anyway (and that isn't saying much since it had already been a frustrating day), explained to her that I didn't have any transport. She replied, and I quote word for word, "That's a very stupid reason." Well excuse me for not having a liscence to drive at the age of sixteen.

She finally ended her tirade with, "Well... the reason I asked was because I had thought to ask you to be the MC for this year's commencement. But I had better ask someone else now. It's a very important job which requires a lot of responsibility." Uh huh. Yak yak yak. More emphasis on her words of how important the damn job is and how I am "not suitable for it since I can't go".

....Right. I never said I couldn't go, now did I? I merely said I didn't go last year because I had no transport... and I didn't have any important reason to go. You'd think that after all the things I have done, all the damn group work I do (especially for her lesson where everyone else is a frigging parasite because they know I'm capable at answering her questions and just use my answers) and all the times I have pulled through for any group project, she'd know that if I was given a responsibility I would move the damn house to accomplish it. I may not be the damn best at everything, but I always try not to let down my group. Hell, I've lost count of the number of times my mother has berated me for putting so much importance on such meial stuff and ignoring sleeping curfews just so I can finish a group project that wasn't done by another member.

I got pissed, something I would never do with my teacher, and just said in a very pointed, sugary sweet voice, "Well, good luck with your search then!" And I walked back to my seat.

I admit that I'm slightly disappointed. It isn't the end of the world and I'm not given to pout over it, but the idea that my teacher of my favourite subject would think that way about me rankles. No, she isn't my favourite teacher... but I do well in her class and actually put more of an effort to be the best. 'cause with English, at least I know I have a glimmer of a chance.

It's just the fact that I would have liked to have a reason to go to one of those stupid school functions... and not fall asleep half-way. I would never have accepted such a thing three years ago, but I am actually comfortable with my own skin now. I don't mind going up with a mic and talking... as long as it doesn't involve a debate. Gawd's truth, I want to be bleeding heard!

I'm sick of not fitting in. Just because I don't make tasteless and crude jabs at someone's sexuality, or run after books like there's no tomorrow, or spew god damned info about computer science, I'm regarded as a bleeding ice bitch who has the temper of Hades and a ten foot pole stuck up her ass. Well, pardon me for not having the same sense of humour as you louts out there. No, I don't go around touching other people's balls or suggesting that someone isn't as man or woman as they ought to be. I find that to be crude and insensitve, and an utter waste of energy. And I'll be DAMNED if I'm going to bend over like a good little lap dog ever again just to please some fools so that they'd except me.

I just want to be seen!

No, I don't share that sort of rancid humour. I prefer something with a bit more wit, an occasional conversation that has absolutely no logic to it except to carry on (if you read Tshen's blog on the dead rat, that's the sort of thing I mean) and something a bit more classy than always, always, always suggesting that someone is a bleeding dickhead. I don't need to suggest that; from what I observe the lot of them are dickheads and there shouldn't be a need to point out the obvious.

No, I don't talk com stuff. I'm not the best at computers or anything to do with them. I don't like grunge, I'm not a fan of metal and I have a type of music taste that leans more towards classical or new age with string instruments. Drums and guitars are fine, but I like it to be more than the utter dribble that the many "bands", that are formed by the kids in school, produce. I don't know how to play Chinese chess, I'm not the best at chess period and I prefer good old pen/pencil/brush and paint, and paper to painting on Photoshop.

So... sue me for not crawling down to the fools' standard of humour and for not being the best at anything in particular.

It's ironic.

I used to 'twist my hand' and make myself utterly miserable by changing just to try and fit in with a crowd. Finally I'm comfortable enough with myself to refuse to bend too much to please other people (I am civil and don't intentionally snub people off even if I happen to find their behaviour revolting) ...and I'm surrounded by NO ONE that will truly click with me.

Whenever I make a crack about how the little kids are so cute and let's just kick one so they all fall over like dominos, I'm told in a screechy voice by my peers that I'm mean. Of course I am. It's utterly mean of me to make such wise cracks when I never hurt animals (save blood suckers) or the little children around me. Of course that isn't a wise crack and I'm certainly the worst kid hater out there when I actually go through the trouble of carrying the little munchkins' bags down the stairs for them, never mind the fact that I'm struggling with my own load. No, no, I'm an utter demon to suggest such a thing. After all, it isn't mean to go around kicking people in their balls and slapping them harshly on the back when they do nothing to you like the majority of my peers. And the prefects are such utter dears, letting the little kiddies go about struggling with their load unassisted.

Yes, Nicholas. I complain about the little brats in my bus. Why don't you come and ride the bus with me for a week? If you can keep quiet and calm while the little devils scream in your ear as I do, without once screaming at them, then and only then may you make such callous remarks about me being a kid hater.

Of course, Nicholas. I don't have the right to feel hurt that people would actually say such things to me without once trying to find out if it's all just good natured gripping done as you so often do as well. Of course not. I'm not a human being with actual feelings that get hurt when someone takes a dirk and pokes at it. Good heavens, wouldn't the world just end if such a thing were true?

... I've lost track of my gripe. No...I'm not crying. Just depressed. No, I don't need hugs. Ask Nicholas and all my other "friends" who know me. If I get hugged, I'll melt. Forget water, this evil witch from Oz will melt with hugs and concern.

It's just so depressing that I can't have a good conversation with anyone anymore. They either don't have the time to talk to me, they aren't around as much anymore, or they're just too dense to even consider my opinion as something to take notice of. Instead, I'm reduced to talking about the most mundane crap with a group of girls that might accept me into their little circle, but will never understand me.


On a side note, last Thursday to today (Saturday) was the most trying three days of the past week. And the title of this entry has absolutely nothing to to do with the entry.

You all know the drill: If you're brave enough or bored enough to read my dribble (the dribble of the wicked ice bitch who's so damn anal; may God save your souls from my created purgatory *dramatic gasp*), you'll have to put up with whining and typos.

---Anal, ice bitch; over and out.