You could say that I've gotten sick of everyone.

We are different. Teenagers are different. We wear different clothes, we listen to different music, we look different. We are not the same. However, there is one thing that links us teenagers together: We are all fucking whiny as hell. It's not like we actually try to do something about it. Most of just sit in our rooms with the lights off and the computer screen on, listening to that same song that somehow attached to our heart - to our soul - over and over again until the tears start to flow and the bad memories start filling our heads.

I've often heard the expression, "The smartest of us are the most depressed." It's true for the most part. I mean, who wants to hang out with a little Asian kid with glasses and a 4.0 gpa? No one really. You might as well feed him to the Ku Klux Klan, because seriously, this kid is going to be crying a lot during his high school years. He's probably going to look at himself in the mirror and start punching his cheek bones until his knuckles are sore and his jaw has a purplish bloody look to it. And after a while, he's just going to stop looking in the mirror because he can't hold back the tears. He just can't anymore. Do you know what I'm talking about? When you're that fucker that can't even look in the mirror anymore because your self-esteem is dying along with your hopes and dreams?

Okay, rewind a little bit. You probably have no idea what I'm talking about so far. Take a good hard look at yourself. Count the times you've cried over someone who you know will never have a chance with you. Count the times that you've dreamed up the perfect person to spend the rest of your life with, but having it all end up shit as someone tells you there's no such thing as the "perfect person". Stop and drink a shot of vodka before moving on. Count the number of times you've cried and you didn't understand why. Loneliness is hard. Vodka is easy. Choke it down, nobody cares.

From this point on, don't confuse me with what I'm talking about. I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore. That's about it for this entry. That's about it.

Nobody cares about you. Nobody cares that you ate a sandwich during third period. No one cares that you saw the popular kid with a crew cut and a collared shirt trip in the hallway. No one cares that it filled you with happiness. We all bitch about things like this. We all bitch about other people. We always bitch about ourselves. Oh please Matt, go to the homecoming dance with me. Please, PLEASE ask me to prom. At least ask me to Senior Ball. I'll give you my number so we can keep in touch after graduation, all right? I love you Matthew. You have no idea how many times I've cried over you. How many times I've cut my skin and called myself ugly because of you. How many times I've thrown up both because I've tried to impress you with my body and because I've grown sick of myself. I hate you Matthew. I only loved you because I'm a fucking dog that smelled you. You are beautiful.

Smoke a cigarette here. Start wheezing here. Start dying of lung cancer here. Stop caring here.

Now as I'm moving on here, be reminded that I am tripping on acid and listening to Mars Volta. Oh dear god, I want someone to fuck. I mean seriously, I'm going to cut the emotional bullshit and let every girl who reads this know I've probably masturbated about you. I've probably imagined you naked and pictured me fucking you. Is that what you wanted to know? Is THAT why you keep coming here? Is that why you're scratching at my skin until I bleed? Until I fucking admit that all I want is someone to hold and hug and talk to and just FUCK? Sorry, I forgot. I shot you. I broke the bottle and stuck the glass shards through your throat. I kissed your lips as I slit your wrists. It all doesn't matter. I'd fuck any cadaver, anyway. It's not like the dead have genders. They're just corpses. And then reality twists again and you trip on acid and you start getting quite scared because you don't know what's going on and you suddenly realize what you've just admitted and how nobody, NO ONE will love you because of it. Did you know some people have some sort of disorder where they carve what they hate about themselves in their body and urinate and defecate all over the scars?

Exoskeletal junction at the railroad delayed.

I remember there was a time where people didn't talk in sentence fragments. Where every goddamn sentence didn't end with an ellipsis. Oh I don't know... at least people are trying nowadays. We invented the internet. It's not like someone invented it for us. It's not like someone is telling us money is everything and that we need it and that we need it and that we need it. War is peace, war is peace, war is peace. Ignorance my friends, is STRENGTH. Monday, Tuesday, Happy Days. Oh my god, I'm tripping on Acid. Pop a few Ecstasy pills here. You'll feel a lot better once the light-headedness wears off. To hell with it. Smoke three cigarettes to keep the light-headed feeling. SUICIDE SUICIDE.

Walking around school and being that kid that everyone labels the loser, the kid who doesn't talk, the outcast. Walking around and thinking how wonderful it would be if you were the hero, if you were the jock, if you were the kid that everyone loved. The handsome one. The beautiful one. The personality with the super ego. If you saved her life and she fell in love with you. Is that what you want? Sure, everyone wants that. Everyone is crying inside right now. Why can't we do anything about it? Why are we the most advanced species in the world and we can't even overcome emotions? WHY THE FUCK ARE WE SO WEAK?

Please take four acid pills now. I'm pushing acid. I'm pushing it far and beyond. I support tripping out and throwing up all over the letters she wrote to you. You know, the letters that she wrote to you as she burned her arms with cigarettes and listened to soft rock music in her shithole of a kitchen. Those letters. The ones where she tells you how much she misses you and how much she loves you and how much she NEEDS you. Do you remember them? My tongue wants to kiss that girl. To play with her hair. To maybe stab her a few times and then lick the slime off of her face. Her voice was so cute. I remember it. Telling me she loved me.

Oh my god, I'm starting to lose it. I'm starting to really go crazy.

You've started to wander inside of my head because this is what it's like in here. This is why I'm so quiet. I'm struggling with millions of thoughts at once. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Please, you've got to help me. I'll help you. Take these pills. Thank you. Instead of using water to swallow those drugs, use rum or gin. I'm the uncircumcised youth of a generation of SLOTH and IGNORANCE.

What kind of bleak future is ahead of us? I don't really know. I just kind of feel like ripping out your heart and drinking your blood.

Fuck you,
-george

It feels like my gums are bleeding. I feel like dancing. I feel like socking her in the face. Nevermind, all I feel is her sneaker kicking the back of my shins.

How about "fuck you"?

Driving down the highway on your way home, smoking a cigarette and wondering if it's okay because everyone you know seems to be doing it, even though you've contemplated quitting because of what that special girl thinks of you. Looking at your sister hold the Krispy Kreme doughnuts that you bought because she wanted to be a good host with a good breakfast. Taking another puff because your back is sore as fucking hell, and thinking how nice it would be if the lights coming towards you would crash into your body so your mind won't be so sore anymore. Thinking how nice swerving into the curb at fifty miles an hour would be. Licking the glaze off the back of your teeth from the orange chicken you ate a few hours ago, for a split second wondering if it's really the glaze or the cigarettes burning your gums into a fruity sensation. As you park your car, you think of what just happened and how hard it's become to breathe.

Listening to the girl you used to check out last year ask you if you liked "Donnie Darko" and you replying yes because you assumed she did too. And her saying she thought it was boring as hell, and you knowing you probably would have thought so as well because every movie you see nowadays is making you absolutely abhor the movie industry. And wondering if someone would make a movie about your goddamn life because you're sick of watching people on the other side of the screen do what they love while you're cramming butter into your arteries and losing hair on a chair that could hardly be considered comfortable.

And as you watch that same sister of yours grasping fake air, joking around with the girl you used to check out, you wonder if they both know what you're thinking, that you aren't laughing for a reason. They're not funny. And you start thinking about the short old lady who used to work for your boss and is helping out until your employers find more help, and you start laughing silently because you think that she kind of looks like a gnome or an elf because her hair is shaped like a cone. And how the shoes with the belt buckles and the masculine "I just escaped jail" look on the face not helping at all. Suddenly you're interrupted by the Middle Eastern woman with the made-up face telling you she needs a table for nine. And you start shuffling papers around frantically, finding a piece of paper to write her name on so you can call her when her table is ready. And when you tell her her table will be ready in a few moments, she gives you that fake smile, and you look at her for a split second, staring into her eyes, telling her that she's a big fucking phony and that she needs a scrape at the face. A scrape that will wipe all that lipstick off her mouth and all the dark eye shadow off of her cruddy forty year old eyes.

Finally you stop looking at her and you look at her kids and you realize how fashionably hip they are. And you start thinking that if people judge each other on looks, the person with the most money wins. Personality does not matter. The phone rings. "Hello, may I help you?" They're breaking up. You start to talk louder, and they start to talk louder, and finally you both end up yelling at each other. Of course you forget you're in a goddamn restaurant and everyone in the building is staring at you, giving you the fake smiles and the look that screams "Shut the fuck up". You finally make out what they're saying, but since you've done this so many times before you start thinking like an automated machine, and in all of this confusion you start spitting out lines like "It'll be there in about forty to forty-five minutes" or "Sorry, was this for pick-up or delivery?" when you obviously know they either haven't started ordering, or you damn well know that they just wanted a reservation. And as you drop the receiver, making that "click" sound, you start talking to yourself, but since you've been yelling you can't differentiate between inside voices and high-pitched noises. And as you walk towards the kitchen to give them the check of the order you just placed, you give a woman in a flamboyant rainbow sweater that same fake smile the Persian woman gave YOU. You start feeling disgusted with yourself and your eyes begin to blur.

You stare at the clock knowing that you won't be going home any time soon. You begin to weep quietly because no one you like is coming in to have dinner, and as the first tear begins to trickle down your cheek, you realize that the reason no one you like is coming in is because you have started to hate people. The same people that give you the fake goddamn smile and don't know the difference between Visa and Mastercard. Visa card numbers begin with four, Mastercard numbers begin with five, and if anyone wanted to know, American Express numbers start with three. You hate the same people that don't know this, and how you've begun memorizing certain combinations in credit card numbers because you've decided you want to screw over Mr. and Mrs. Discover card.

And knowing you thought all of this and knowing how pathetic it all is, you can already taste the vodka on your tongue and how much it burns when it's sliding down your throat.

cya.

-george

I finally got a fucking "A" on one of my essays. Eat THAT, Teresa.

George Ha
Per 4 Rice

“Vision of the Future”

As 1984 came and went, Americans sang softly in praise of themselves. Despite horrible tragedies, at least the bleak and Big Brother controlled future that Orwell predicted had not come to pass. However, as author Neil Postman presents, the world that Huxley created in Brave New World is almost one in the same as the modern world – even more so now than in 1985 when “Vision of the Future” was written. The rise of technology and the demand for high-entertainment media corrupted the world’s economy over time, creating a world with lazy teenagers, parents, adolescents, and an older generation parked in front of their televisions, movie screens, CD players, and computers, eliminating the high demand for books present only half a century ago. “Vision of the Future” compares and contrasts both Orwell and Huxley’s thoughts on the modern world and decides that although Orwell’s depressing prophecy of the future did not become reality, we must still fear the world Huxley presented – a world loving sloth, ignorance, and corruption.
“What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one.” Although several books were banned in the mid 20th century such as Fahrenheit 451, which presents a similar world between Huxley and Orwell’s, the main threat here was the public’s disinterest in reading. With the growth of digital entertainment, people’s interest in books faded, as nobody wanted to take a few hours out of their day to read what could be presented to them on a screen in a matter of minutes. However the irony of sitting in front of a television for hours or even days has not yet hit Americans. In Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury predicts a world run by commercialism – entire rooms becoming television screens through the use of four-wall projectors and the horror of two hundred foot long billboards.
“As he (Huxley) saw it, people will come to love their oppression, to adore the technologies that undo their capacities to think.” It has been unknown as to what people think about when watching television rather than reading, but perhaps it is little or anything at all. The use of calculators to solve math problems in school, the spelling and grammatical checkers used on essays, and the ability to communicate worldwide without any form of writing have all limited thought process.
“Huxley feared those who would give us so much (truth) that we would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance.” Since 1985, this became even truer with the internet. Millions of web pages advertising the many different “truths” flood computer screens every second, creating a human apathy towards what some consider “truth”. There are also those that present the truth in an irrelevant fashion. For example, America has used the attack on September 11th as an excuse to go to war with Iraq, a country completely irrelevant to these terrorist attacks. Soon the war became more focused on finding “weapons of mass destruction”. As soon as that idea was proven false, American leaders then chose another irrelevant idea for war. After a tidal wave of “truth”, the American people have gone back to their television programs and their computers in search of some other news and entertainment.
The world of media has destroyed our thinking capabilities. Instead of reading and expanding our knowledge, we have been reduced to staring at a glass screen for hours at a time. We have “failed to take into account man’s almost infinite appetite for distractions”, and have created a society based on sloth and ignorance. “Huxley feared that what we love will ruin us,” and indeed it has. Our love of celebrities and non-thought provoking news has limited our thought and has created a society dominated by the use of machines.

I have the worst headache I've ever had in my life right now. The right side of my head is thumping like crazy. Whenever I blow my nose, the left nostril is okay, but sometimes there's blood out of the right nostril. It feels like my headache and my right nostril are someway connected. It kind feels divine. I have no idea how I'm going to drive to traffic court in an hour.

I got in a car accident on Tuesday. Nothing too bad - I was backing up out of a parking space, and all of a sudden I heard a loud bumping noise. I didn't really feel nervous at the time, as it didn't seem all that real to me. I gave him my information, looked at my bumper, and was glad I was alive. He told me it was partially his fault too, because he had just got the car and he didn't know where the horn was. He still hasn't called me back yet. My favorite part about this whole ordeal was that instead of my mom asking me if I was okay, she yelled at me over the phone. I think this is where my headache started. I've noticed that the more people talk and irritate me, the worse my headache becomes.

Aside from watching a texas hold em' poker tournament on TV last night and missing two concerts because I've been sick (of course I have to work at my parents' restaurant as their logic is wonderful), this Winter Break has been really uneventful. I've had to go to court about three times in the morning to check-in, but never actually going to court because my mom is always busy. Hopefully I can just get it over with today, and ask the judge to turn my community service into a fine. I really have no time to do 36 hours of community service. Really.

I've also noticed that medicine never really works. You take it, and eventually you feel better, but it never really cures you. I think it's all a scam.

cya.

-george