Sample-y, Sample-y, La La
You can ask me what I have against The Slayer all you want, and I'll tell you: More than enough. Satisfied?
It's not like I'm making stuff up. Raising her up. Putting her up on a pedestal so high, so unreachable, that to attempt shaking it is an exercise in futility. Do I look like I'd do that? She has enough power. I don't need to give her more.
I mean, what, you think I'm heaping subconscious crap on her image? Like she's every girl who ever turned me down: laughed at me for being too... or not enough...? That high pitched giggle in the hallway that you know is directed at you? At something you've done wrong? Your clothes. Your hair. Your face. She's that girl who asks you to the dance once as a joke, so all her little friends can laugh. Because they're all in it together. Please.
And I suppose she's the boys, too. Who never picked me. Like I wanted to play. I didn't want to play. They can keep their secret club houses in the woods, their tree forts. They were not structurally sound. They can grow up to shove people up against lockers, shove people into the girl's room, steal people's books, their homework, their clothes during gym class, all they want. I don't want anything to do with them. I don't.
So, sure. Okay. I can hear every taunt, every insult I've ever been subjected to, in her voice. Can picture them spewing from her face. Jabs at my sexuality, weight, mother, race, nose, voice, mind, likes, dislikes, friends, lack-of friends. Let's say: I'm too smart for my own good, like there is such a thing. And my imagination knows no bounds. Let's say that. Right. Whatever. C'mon. End Sarcasm.
She is not the reason I sat home, alone on weekends.
She is not why I didn't have a date to the prom.
All she is why I am approximately nowhere, despite the obvious genius (and since when did that stop counting for something?).
And people like Jonathan can do what people like Jonathan do. I don't swing that way.
...
Not like that. Please. It's a thing.
It's not like I'm making stuff up. Raising her up. Putting her up on a pedestal so high, so unreachable, that to attempt shaking it is an exercise in futility. Do I look like I'd do that? She has enough power. I don't need to give her more.
I mean, what, you think I'm heaping subconscious crap on her image? Like she's every girl who ever turned me down: laughed at me for being too... or not enough...? That high pitched giggle in the hallway that you know is directed at you? At something you've done wrong? Your clothes. Your hair. Your face. She's that girl who asks you to the dance once as a joke, so all her little friends can laugh. Because they're all in it together. Please.
And I suppose she's the boys, too. Who never picked me. Like I wanted to play. I didn't want to play. They can keep their secret club houses in the woods, their tree forts. They were not structurally sound. They can grow up to shove people up against lockers, shove people into the girl's room, steal people's books, their homework, their clothes during gym class, all they want. I don't want anything to do with them. I don't.
So, sure. Okay. I can hear every taunt, every insult I've ever been subjected to, in her voice. Can picture them spewing from her face. Jabs at my sexuality, weight, mother, race, nose, voice, mind, likes, dislikes, friends, lack-of friends. Let's say: I'm too smart for my own good, like there is such a thing. And my imagination knows no bounds. Let's say that. Right. Whatever. C'mon. End Sarcasm.
She is not the reason I sat home, alone on weekends.
She is not why I didn't have a date to the prom.
All she is why I am approximately nowhere, despite the obvious genius (and since when did that stop counting for something?).
And people like Jonathan can do what people like Jonathan do. I don't swing that way.
...
Not like that. Please. It's a thing.