this is what i've got to show for thirteen years on this damn planet. bony shoulders slouched, passing you a flimsy piece of paper, my life's work in three hundred baby words.
Small eyes trying their best to be wide and innocent, a weak twisting of the dry lips, i tilt my thin face down and ask to be accepted.
My hours of suffering, stomach-churning, tums-swallowing, finger-quivering work are squeezed into an index of achievements, writing contest awards that you grand ed-you-caters with your ralph lauren bowties and slender champagne glasses will blink at, sniff at, bark at with your jowls flopping, "well!..."
well. don't make any excuses or "nice ways of putting it" for my pathetic education and classes of cutting out grids with purple kid scissors. get to the point. i'm exactly what you expected, a dum dyed-blonde with a pink bookbag and an artificial understanding of literature that underpaid gawkers will beam at but you corporate teacher-advisors with your tacky suits and squishy gray office chairs will smirk at and scribble a comment about to who-knows-who in your patterned generic notepad.
and while you're scanning through this with your frameless glasses nestled on a jagged nook in your nose and your straight, thin lips parted like a gaping fish, realize that I'M TALKING TO YOU. no, not your eager little pet/assistant waddling off to get your coffee which you will stare at for a second and sip once. not your snippy co-worker, who quickly and loudly agrees with every listless incantation that wanders out of your dry mouth. YOU. you who pick out every grammar mistake, writing tool, and book reference i have scribbled at 10:48 p.m., after i couldn't deal with the same thoughts of my future pacing around, trying to find an exit out of my puny hopeful brain. you who never just say, "the hell with this, it's a piece of crap", but "well, it has interesting detail, but it's not what we're looking for." you whose idea of a good time is listening to mindless classical droning while babbling to your inferior slaves who laugh lightly at every intelligent piece of wit you brush over them.
well, i won't get into your five-star high school, i don't meet your frilly educational criteria, and you'll chuck this in your sterile blue wastebasket. but just let this sentence penetrate your thick plaster skull as you fail this crummy paper. I'M TALKING TO YOU.
