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The world is a garden,

and we are the weeds,

waiting to be plucked up by the roots, because,

really,

does anyone out there feel useful?

I’ve told you once, so I’ll whisper it again a thousand times.

I don’t believe in marriage,

but I do believe in fate and happily-ever-after,

except that neither of us are weak enough

to be the sleeping beauty.

Normalcy is overrated,

and while I’m on the subject, I’m glad that the research shows that

women are born bisexual.

Not that I've tested this theory, but sometimes I think it would be better

to go with what I know.

If true light is blinding,

then I must be living in total darkness.

What good is the sun if it can’t illuminate the truth?

If I have lived in ignorance my entire life,

how will I react when I am brought out of the cave?

Pain and pleasure are taboo when brought together,

so why is life so acceptable?

If we all share the genes in bananas,

then I have to say that I’m ape for you,

‘cause I want to peel back your layers and devour your inner softness.

If someone asks you how you are,

you can respond that your life is like a bowl of cherries:

All the good stuff is on the surface—

everything rotting has been shoved to the bottom.

Watch out for the cherry that spoils them all, I say.

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The room in the barn where my teacher and I drill scales always strikes me as bare and cell-like. The decrepit ivory walls form a casket, jerking your attention to the exact middle of the room where there are some disfigured chairs from different parts of the building. A scrutiny of the rough walls reveals scuff marks and chipping paint near an oily clock and a mirror. The shrill tick grinds at my ears, seeming faster than normal, but it is not nearly as off-putting as the hulking missile the mirror is reflecting. It is a black effigy, straining at its bottom and slack at its top. A number of slick harnesses and shiny zippers augment its disturbing reflection. The effigy’s ashen-colored accomplice lies on the dark gold floor, head resting on a diminutive rubbish bin. The bin is putrid, smelling of decomposing bananas and other rotten fruit. There is also the muffled buzz of fruit flies near the bin, though none are visible. Perhaps I am confusing it with the drone of the fluorescent light fusing with the harsh clock; I am not sharp in the fetid air, which leaves my mouth as dry as the gritty ceiling. The ceiling, like the walls, is shedding its paint. There are thin gray streaks on the ceiling and powder on the floor, both from the fallen plaster. The powder plugs the black punctures in the floor, and the effect is similar to the leftovers of a darts match that used a drill lathered in liquid chalk. Stepping on one of these punctures produces a bleached nebula around your foot that smells of ammonia. Read more »

I am a teenager.

i'm sorry, i should say we— are teenagers. all of us from twelve to twenty,

i speak for all of us— because, being a teenager,

i have the audacity to think i have the right to do that.

(i was being sarcastic just now—

we tend to do that a lot.)

you've heard a lot about us. you've read a lot about us. you know

a lot about us. particularly psychologists.

here are some things you know about "the teenager":

one: we are extreme. particularly when it comes to drama or neuroticism. 

every loss or misfortune that befalls our dynamically delicate lives is apocalyptic in proportion and the trauma is permanent damage. any good luck and suddenly life is perfect.

give us the slightest taste of something to fight for and you'll find we won't shut up.

two, we know we're right.

all others in the room are sheeple— in our (often angst-ridden) contemplations, we alone have found the true way to look at life. all others are fallacies, all others have never felt what we feel. have never understood what we understand.

This is fact. This we know.

three, we hate authority.

all the rebelliousness we have is directed straight at the people who think they can tell us what to do, the people who think they know what's best for us.

we're growing. we're quickly becoming people of our own. we're big and able to make decisions but for some reason we find that most things about our lives have already been decided.

the only solution is to make more decisions than our superiors, which means most of them are going to be wrong. it's considered a necessary sacrifice. Read more »