When I was little I would get frustrated at the group member who couldn't keep pace, who would get in the way. That I am now in that position makes me sick, angry, and guilty. While riding on the bus the other day I listened to the chaos in back. They were smoking cigarettes and hash and whatnot, since the bus driver was a particularly lenient one. As they laughed and shouted and cheered I realized that they were better than me. The more I associate with people the more isolated I become. I have too many unpopular opinions and ideas. I must be defective; yet not too much, because I am symmetrical, and all of my limbs are intact and functioning. This is a good thing, but it has little or no effect on the price of apples. I suppose I would have made me miserable too. I must have deserved it. I'm sure I still do. I'm an idiot. I've always prided myself on what appeared to be intelligence, but that it took me this long to figure that out, when everyone around me was telling me......about all I can do well is severely annoy strangers and make a complete ass of myself. I'm going to go do some homework. From what I hear it's meaningless. As a top student, to me that implies that I am as well. But this is what I do. It's not a choice. It's a personality trait. Or defect. Good night.
Everything is incompatible with Itself.
The strengh of my weakness is matched only by my own self-pity, self-reproach, self-loathing, and inability or stubborn refusal to change any of it. That countless masses have gotten by better with less compounds the feeling. Me, me, me. I pull into myself because nobody's out there. I'm crowded in my solitude. Discourage coming out for the inconvenience, and discourage pulling in for the appearance. Contradict me now and contradict you later. One by one people get tired of listening, and I get tired of speaking my silence. I love what is hated, I gather what is discarded, I collect trash and make it presentable. I seek to recreate everything in my own image, which is being recreated in its image. The experiment has failed once more, but I'll continue until the universe warps from it. I impatiently persevere in complaining quiet. You never understood, you never will understand, but that's okay because neither will I; I'm just more dignified about things, and I wear them better. Action, reaction, result. Who would be so arrogant as to assume control of existence itself? Not I. I'm just an echo's shadow. I can already hear myself laughing.
Hm. I think I was much happier when I was miserable. But that's probably just dreamy nostalgia talking. I know how cold dreams can be; I know how they lie. No, wait, that was a line from a comic strip. Nevermind. I'm going to bed.
Personally I think I'm a horrible person. Somewhere along the line I did some great wrong and/or evil, and though I'm not exactly sure what it is, I'm suffering for it now, and will continue to do so until I figure out what it is and then properly atone for it. In the meantime I am doomed to make perpetually worse my own situation by brutally mocking school shooting tragedies. I know I shouldn't. I know that in their current state of hysteria both my peers and the powers that be will be watching everything everyone ever says very, very carefully, and will blatantly screw up every bit of it in their notes. As a result, I'm usually too scared to talk to anyone. Sometimes I'm too scared to post anything on this site. A certain word, a particular phrase, all become euphemisms for something more sinister. People read between the lines, and ignore what's on the lines. A mere thought, a half-hearted idea, a brain spark sets off a wildfire of accusation and rumor. A mere misunderstanding or an imperfect word, and a life is over. So I get scared, then I get sick, then I get angry, and then I have to post something utterly shocking and/or offensive. This doesn't help the hysteria any, nor does it improve my own social situation, but it's something that has to be done because people are so damned stupid sometimes. So, in honor of the most glorified landmark school shooting and shooters I call this high school hysteria Kleboldism. Or maybe Junior McCarthyism. I haven't decided yet. Regardless, I need to boost my own self-confidence by putting everyone else down right now. This I learned from my peers in elementary school, along with the fact that no one really gives a damn about it anymore. So don't start complaining about it now when you see it from me. Deal with it. Better yet, change it. Until then, choke on it, you maggots.
Yeah, so last night I got a little crazy, and started talking to random strangers in my Instant Messenger non-buddy list. Most of them were classmates with whom I had argued at some point or another. I don't know if they still have any nasty feelings toward me, but it's too late for that anyway. So then I unloaded all kinds of neurotic emotional baggage on them, covering it up in most cases by telling them stories of human depravity and sodomy, as well as Pokemon depravity and sodomy. A couple of them got scared and left, or so I was left to assume. Other conversations ended with long, awkward pauses when we both ran out of things to say. I have no idea what I was thinking. That was a horrible mistake. Nothing good has ever come from me saying too much, let alone about myself. But here I am anyway. A hypocrite is anyone who tries to balance idealism and practicality.
So, I guess I'm doomed to sway between bitterness and weakness for the rest of my life. At least I have cheap Pokemon fan fiction porn to keep me company, and once I'm out of the school system I will finally be immune to asinine public hysteria. Then I can let DV out of his little plastic box to romp and play and write controversial stories and be as freely angry as he likes and do other darky kinda things. Until then, I am a prisoner of my own mind and of others' fears.
Transition complete. Reboot.
3/12/2001 |
| Finish this. Tell me how to live. I need results. I need to draw conclusions; something, anything. I need consistencies, even consistencies in cruelty. New chapter, new chapter |
3/12/2001 |
| So... Just how realistic is hope, anyway? Two years ago I said, "Not very." An overwhelming wave of scathing public opinion said I was being pitifully negative. For reasons unknown to me I've come around to the other side of the fence. I want to stop my peers from destroying each other. Making a fuss is the only way I know to get people to listen. Where did everybody go? What happened to all those faceless voices? Why am I alone again even here? What the hell IS this? Is being an apathetic, cynical jerk the only way to live? Kick back on the front porch with a portable television and a cold coke, and watch the carnage unfold because there's nothing that can be done? Then what was I doing wrong before? Oh, nevermind. Flip a switch. One, zero, one, one, zero. Maybe I'll find the right combination someday; probably not. Come on, DV, show us what you've learned. We'll stick with what we know. Let the rest of them alone. Let them be. Let them all suffer. That feels...nice...familiar...Now you can't say I didn't try. |
School shootings are the greatest representation of American liberty the country has ever known. Their perpetrators are truly examples of the "rugged individualists" who have made up the spirit of American democracy in the past and present alike. The gunmen had social problems, and they pulled themselves up by the bootstraps to find solutions. They worked out plans, gathered their resources, and got right to the heart of the matter; their efforts were certainly a blazing success. The dead are not coming back, and the gunmen will most likely go where they will not be bothered again; problem solved.
Now, I liken the people who say "deal with it" to the gunmen's social problems to the crotchety old man who spends his days on the front porch, drinking wood alcohol and complaining about the government. He never gets up from his rocking chair and boomstick to vote or write letters to his congressmen to bring about change. Yet he will still prattle on all day about the problems of the government's methods. The "deal with it" faction will delegate all responsibility to the gunmen, yet will whine about the methods used when the gunmen do, in fact, deal with the situation. Such a mentality is contrary to the American ideal of self-determinism and liberty.
The past is the circuit board. The present is its interfaces and the connecting media. The future is sent by the connected database.
almost made it
there is no possible way
i am an echo
i am here to stay
Oh, you pessimists; always trying to bring everybody down. At least the .11 percent of the students that were killed in San Diego weren't anally sodomized after they were mowed down like animals. At least the other 1898 non-dead got out with only a few scrapes and emotional scars that they can whine endlessly about for the next ten years or so. So get over it. In the meantime I'm going to be constructive about this "tragedy" and open the betting booths. I bet one meaningful essay that within three months the next "victim" state will be South Dakota. Personally I feel that these school shootings are in the long run a positive development for our society. It saves on long-winded bureaucratic red tape. Rather than pass laws, we can simply pass the time and wait for this problem to solve itself. After the maggots destroy themselves, only the elite, the uber-students, will be left to repopulate schools, to create a master race that can bring the Bourgeois Power to its knees! So stop moping around about "senseless violence" and whatnot. Oh, "Wah wah, I don't want to see my best friends' faces blown into a bloody splotch on the wall right in front of me." One essay. Three months. Countless possibilities. Deal with it.
Another one bites the dust. I'm watching, laughing, and writing down your mistakes. That's just my incorrigible optimism shining through.
In the winter months it became dark before dinner time, and someone could call upstairs to let me know, but I usually didn't notice because I stayed alone in a room with all the shades pulled down, staring into space. Staring back was a tiny little smiley face. It was white and was set against a dark blue rectangle of similar dimensions. Arranged around the face in ever-changing patterns were multi-colored shapes, some of which had minds of their own. Long into the night we would have conversations. Once in a while I would break the routine with an idea for a play, and they were happy to give it a try. Sometimes they only lasted a fraction of a second, but more often they were long, complicated procedures who needed careful revision. But after many rehersals they could be performed flawlessly, and we were all pleased. No, those days weren't so bad. Not bad at all.
^PHEAR^...
When I was just a little lunatic I had little else to do except become a computer geek. I had little to nothing in common with the other kids, and I was pitifully lacking in physical skills of any and every kind. So instead I played around with QBasic and whatnot. I made silly little pointless programs, started a bunch of games that I never finished, and made a menu for the dozen of games I had on the hard drive. When I'd get tired of those I'd dial into a local BBS somewhere and play the games there for a while, maybe upload some of the smaller games I had lying around, and would occasionally make an idiot out of myself on the message boards.
One day I found a fellow geek who was my own age and who was involved in some of the same projects I was. His handle was Baudbrain. We didn't really know each other, but then, there was no reason to. We were insecure enough that we pretended to be other people, stronger people with cooler names. But that was alright, because just about everyone else was equally geeky or neurotic. There was a guy named Alex Mead there. He was about sixteen or so, and he programmed his own games, in C, not QBasic. I thought that was the coolest thing. Baudbrain and I tried rather unsuccessfully to learn even the basics of C, up until the day the BBS was shut down by the middle-aged owner after his son had a life-threatening accident.
I've always liked message boards. I liked those small BBSes in particular. There was something personal about them. They made me feel...at home. It was a safe feeling, like watching a gray, rainy day from the comfort of a nice warm house. And they were like houses, in a way. We were a big happy loser family. All of the people there were on the same wavelength. They were diverse, yet still had a common thread of geekiness. We scoffed at user friendly GUIs. IBM / Mac wars occasionally ravaged the boards. Users of the DOS prompt were considered to be an intellectual step above GUI users. Computer users in general were a step above others. The social interaction I saw seemed somehow magical, like many things do when experienced for the first time.
I don't know what happened to Baudbrain. I suppose he's somewhere on the Internet now, but for all practical purposes he's gone. Every once in a while I come across another Baudbrain somewhere in this new impersonal version of cyberspace, or another Alex, another Gregory Janson. It's reassuring, in a way, but brings with it feelings of inferiority for me. I prided myself on my intelligence back then, or rather, my good grades in school, and they were all my equals and, more often, my superiors. I never seemed able to catch up with them, like I always fell behind when I had to play tag during recess. But I'd rather have them around. I'd rather have something to aim for. I'd rather feel bad than feel nothing at all.
I'm coming, Brain...
This will be reborn. I will line the walls of the Pit with a library, a sidestreet of the information superhighway, something far away from the red light districts.
And the music! Back then personal sound cards and desktop speakers were brand new, leading edge hardware, so in the meantime before it became odd that someone wouldn't have them we were limited to the humble PC speaker, which could emit only friendly beeps and clicks from somewhere in the recesses of the computer. But Gregory Janson translated fraggin' Mozart's works for that speaker in his ZZT games, as well as his own music. In Megazeux he kicked that up a few notches as well, and the Megazeux community could add decent background music in .MOD format, and real sound effects to their worlds. Things...changed before I got a chance to make my own .MOD music, but I came up with a few little PC speaker tunes for my ZZT worlds. What have I been doing? wasting your...No, I had to figure some things out. Back to the basics, then. Stories, music, art, and technology. They're all the same thing anyway. You can't hurt me anymore.
When I was just a little computer geek I played around with a game called ZZT. My heroes were Tim Sweeney and Gregory Janson, people I'm sure you've never heard of. Tim Sweeney was part of Epic Megagames, and was the person who created ZZT. It was nothing special really. It was a simple DOS-based program with standard ASCII graphics. The player character was just a little happy face that moved around with each tap of the arrow keys, and it could shoot at little alphas and omegas and plus signs and pi symbols and dots and diamonds and various other shapes, which represented tigers, lions, or any number of creatures. Much of the game, though, was based on puzzle-solving, and those puzzles really were hard. At least, so they seemed to a seven year old mind. But the real magic of ZZT was in the game editor. ZZT players could make their own add-on worlds, their own puzzles, their own anything. I made my share of worlds. People liked them.
Eventually people like Gregory Janson came around and blew the ZZT community away with their superior ZZT-ing skills. They managed to expand the possibilities of the editor past the standard 8 colors and pre-colored tigers. Instead of a cyan pi tiger you could have a red one, or even a completely unprecedented blinking dark purple one. Gregory Janson was my role model. He was a teenaged programming guru. He wasn't content to dwell within the confines of the 60x25 ASCII character boxes of ZZT. He went on to make his own games from scratch. Eventually he made Megazeux, a ZZT-esque editor/game that was superior to ZZT in every way. The programming language was much broader than the ZZT Object Oriented Programming (ZZT-OOP). The levels could be set to a wide range of dimensions, which scrolled as the player moved around. The ASCII characters could be edited to make any kind of image people needed, with the ability to save and load those image sets at will with a single command. People could make three-dimensional mazes or simulate various laws of physics. So vast were the possibilities that of the countless Megazeux projects I began, I never managed to finish a single one.
This is my life, my world. I suddenly realized that as I was making the little title animation up there. My greatest hobbies and achievements, my entire social life all revolve around these computers. Pathetic? You don't know what you're missing. No, I don't belong among you, Mr. Poopy Pants, Marcus, Neo. I'm part of something better. People's financial futures rest on plastic and metal boxes, with cards inside made of things you've never heard of. Along little metal strings wrapped around the world, through processes you don't understand, tremendous amounts of information are transmitted across oceans and continents in a fraction of a second. That's my element; that's power. A Cisco 12016 Gigabit Switch Router processing up to 320 gigabits per second is infinitely more useful than a uniformed thug holding a football. Oh, surely, I'm a loser, alright. I'm so pathetic, in fact, that your world belongs to me, to us.
ERROR: DIVIDE BY 0.
FATAL_EXCEPTION_ERROR_AT_0906:1984
Hector the Collector
Collected bits of string,
Collected dolls with broken heads
And rusty bells that would not ring.
Pieces out of picture puzzles,
Bent-up nails and ice-cream sticks,
Twists of wires, worn-out tires,
Paper bags and broken bricks.
Old chipped vases, half shoelaces,
Gatlin' guns that wouldn't shoot,
Leaky boats that wouldn't float
And stopped-up horns that wouldn't toot.
Butter knives that had no handles,
Copper keys that fit no locks,
Rings that were too small for fingers,
Dried-up leaves and patched-up socks.
Worn-out belts that had no buckles,
'Lectric trains that had no tracks,
Airplane models, broken bottles,
Three-legged chairs and cups with cracks.
Hector the Collector
Loved these things with all his soul --
Loved them more than shining diamonds,
Loved them more than glistenin' gold.
Hector called to all the people,
"Come and share my treasure trunk!"
And all the silly sightless people
Came and looked...and called it junk.
by Shel Silverstein
BAD_COMMAND_OR_FILE_NAME.
I had never heard the term "gothic" outside the context of a particular architecture until Columbine, when it began to be applied to me, along with other terms. I had asked around, and apparently it had something to do with dark clothing, makeup, Satanism, vampirism, and a predisposition to dislike the status quo. I had but two of the five characteristics; I wear black and varying shades of gray, and often times I don't like what's going on around me. I'm a cross between a beatnik and a hippie. I can't even fit into a stereotype properly. And yet, I found myself using anti-establishment gothic rhetoric.
I think I can relate to them somewhat...but that's where it ends. We look a little alike, except that I don't really like piercings and I don't want to wear makeup...we've had similar experiences, and we've drawn similar conclusions about some things, but I know that I wouldn't fit in even with them. We just wanted to get far away from...those people, yet I am still not entirely like them. My peers had been crude, so I wanted something a little more thoughtful...artistic. They wore bright clothes, so I went with grays and blacks, which were also conveniently symbolic. They always seemed to gang up on me, so I wanted individualism. I didn't fit in and was often alone, and that just made their togetherness stand out that much more, so I went with non-conformity. They watched this kind of movie, read these kinds of books or didn't read at all, listened to that kind of music, had such a style of hair, spoke in a certain variety of slang. I wanted to be different from them because I didn't like who they were and what they did. I retreated into the shadows, into my Pit, into the black. Flight not fight...I can hide here...you can't hurt me anymore...
You've all missed the point. I can't speak for my..."fellow misfits"...but for me this is something meaningful. I never bought into any style or look. There's no doubt in my mind that things would've gone the other way if the people around me had been like I am now. I would've retreated into the light, into the sky, into the blue. This would be DV's Fluffy White Cloud; something, anything that you couldn't corrupt, that you would never want to touch, out of pity or disgust or anything else. It isn't about cliques or subcultures, nothing so highly idealistic as ways of life or morality, not a crusade against a social evil; this is about me and my memories, something neither of us seem to be able to understand, and so we take up arms in argument, labelling and hating. I think I'm going to be sick.
Sometimes I really want to be able to get along with you, but...there are many of you and only one of me. You know what you're getting with me, but you're too numerous for me to understand. Moreover, the worst of you seem to flock to me...I don't think you like them much either, but I don't know of what proportion they are to the rest of you. I know I can't do anything with them but lose. I'm sorry...
I know many people wouldn't understand, let alone agree, but these days I would rather feel bad than feel nothing at all.
You're wrong, all of you. Dead wrong. There was a time when I did get out of the house, when I did try to mingle. My hair wasn't too long, my clothes were rather bright and colorful, and I hadn't yet decided to hide in the dark. I never had dates to any school functions but I went anyway. I had absolutely no friends, not even the couple I have now, but I was trying to meet people. I tried; that's all anyone can ask of me. I never stood a chance.
How is your self esteem...? Does it make you feel all warm and cuddly to write this crap...?"
Does it make you feel all cuddly to insult a stranger? My self esteem? Since when did my feelings ever matter to you?
It seems like you've shut society out, not the other way around...
Yeah, so it seems. It's true now, to some extent, but you weren't there at the beginning.
Freak...loser...asshole...
You're just a scared kid...
Yeah...you do scare me. That's what you never understood. I was utterly helpless back then. I had no defenses, physical or mental. I had no emotional support when I needed it: while it was happening. Not after it happened, as some kind of "life lesson," and not before it happened, as a strategy.
We get made fun of too...
Yeah, I know. I listen. You're ruthless. That scares me too. But you don't make a big deal out of anything. I've never seen or heard you take anything seriously, except maybe wanting to legalize marijuana, or keeping Napster alive. If there's more than that, then why can't you understand that I take different things just as seriously?
So you better stay in your pit for a while...it keeps you safe...and alone...
Ohhh...shove that condescending tone right up your ass and out your obnoxiously loud mouth. You have nothing on me. Considering the company I would keep otherwise, this relative solitude is a blessing rather than a curse. Yet I need stimulation. Something, anything. Sometimes that's limited social interaction. More often than not it's this site. You are obsolete. For all your supposed fears about me, would you rather I bottle this up?
You judge people too...everyone does...so stop whining...
In daily public life I keep my harsh opinions to myself. You don't. Stop whining about my supposed whining.
If you're trying to look like a victim you're not doing a very good job...
I am a product of my environment. So are you. We are all victims of circumstance, for better or for worse. Everything else, self-determination included, must be built on that foundation.
I am DV. Through your efforts to destroy me you have created me. Now I am here to stay, and I cannot deny the lessons you have taught me.
I am Dread. I am not a hypocrite, but I am full of confusion and conflict. What you see before you is the tangled mass of contradictory sentiments, internal and external, that comprises my soul.
You are Legion. You are nothing but echoes to me, yet I will consistently seem to contradict myself by taking seriously everything everyone has to say. I will listen. I will care about what's going on around me.
And you will think that a fault.
Sometimes I like to think that everyone's okay, but...
Goths and hackers are the same people with different hobbies.
Ticktickticktickticktickticktick...
There's an old wind-up clock that sits at the head of my bed. I got it several years ago when my grandmother died. That was in 1993, I think. I was in third grade.
I was raised by my grandparents probably just as much as by my parents. Early on that was done by my grandmother in particular. I used to spend my weekends with her, my father's mother, in the same house where I had lived when I was very young, about three or four years old. When her sickness from the cancer and its accompanying treatment took a turn for the worse, those weekend visits stopped. The last time I can remember speaking to her was over the telephone. I asked if I would be able to come over that weekend, and she said that probably wouldn't be a good idea. I asked when I would be able to come over again, and she said that she didn't know. The next time I saw her was when her ashes were shipped via U.S. mail in a plain brown paper package. I don't think that package was ever opened. My parents put it in their room somewhere, perhaps under the bed.
Some time later, after sorting through her belongings, her old jewelry, her clothes, and keeping a few select items, I was left with a few trinkets. Among them were a small necklace with a little gold letter engraved in a square white block on it, an old, tattered Bible she said she would give me someday, and, of course, that clock. She wound up under the bed in a small cardboard box. Those items ended up in my closet in a small plastic bag. Some years later, when I dared to sort through the solid mountain of nostalgia that had gathered in my closet, I happened upon that bag, and the clock was again put to use.
Ticktickticktickticktickticktick...
It emits a definite rhythm. I've tried to decipher its relation to actual seconds but can't, yet it keeps time, falling behind only ten minutes each day as it winds down. And always, always I hear the ticking. It's almost soothing, as my viola playing used to soothe me. I would practice for hours during those weekend visits before I ended up having to give up my place in the school orchestra not too long ago. I would also toy around with the piano she had. After she died I asked my parents to bring that piano home with us, and they said they would in the spring. Spring and summer came and went, and soon the piano was sold by grandpa. Nobody liked him much, and a little later he went senile and moved down south.
Time, tempo, music, math. There is relation. Everything in proper order. Tick tock, black white, pillow rock, left right; right wrong, false true, weak strong, black blue; pain joy, friend stranger, tool toy, safety danger; home school, work fun, genius fool, zero one. Digitize everything. I am a product of my environment. I am a fringe child of technology.
Ticktickticktickticktickticktick...
The Protestant Reformation, the American Revolution, the Agrarian Protests; we social commentators have a long history, and there are plenty of over-the-top speeches that put even my essays to shame. William Jennings Bryan's "Cross of Gold" speech at the 1896 Democratic Convention asserted the "free silver" platform with scorching, religious rhetoric. "You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns, you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold." Heck, that beats my "let's stop destroying each other" arguments hands down. Even I don't make allusions to Jesus' crucifixion, and Bryan did it to argue a monetary policy. I have added to the featured writing section the article, "What's the Matter with Kansas?" It was in a Kansas newspaper in that same year of 1896. In the editorial, William Allen White attacks the goals of the Populists, and flames his entire state of Kansas as being full of lunatics and idiots.
So shut up. You don't even know what you're talking about with my supposed negativity. Complaints and pessimism are the greatest American traditions; human traditions. It's what people do. Not everything is peachy keen, fine and dandy. Not everything is satisfactory. Not everything can or should be tolerated. Whining my ass; my means are limited to this. Criticizing that which doesn't affect me my ass; I've examined the social structure, largely in public schools, that has made me who I am. Although, I would like to hear what human and animal rights activists have to say about that. So cram it, Mr. Poopy Pants. Jump in front of a truck, Normalize Yourself. Neo, mrb, marcus, shove it up your abnormally large excretory openings.
At least I'm trying. At least I give a damn about what's going on around me. But you? Light up, bust open a six pack, watch a football game, or whatever else, and you're set. It's easy to assume the world is filthy when looking at a sewer, but that works both ways. It's easy to assume that everything is fine when all you do is stick to your own petty habits. It's easy to criticize my ego and my beliefs when you never venture outside your own ego, and you certainly wouldn't condescend to present your beliefs to me, if you have any. That you think I'm wrong and I suck don't count.
No, I won't give in to the fatalistic sentiment of my peers. My pessimism is better than your pessimism. I wanted to do something with it; you're the ones who told me it was hopeless and meaningless. You're the ones who sent me death threats and had the gall to, dare I say, whine that you thought I was dangerous. How incredibly hypocritical of you.
You know what? Forget it. You were all right. I should never have questioned anything. Keep it up, guys. Keep hassling each other. Have your fun. Play your games. Dice up your faces with broken glass for all I care.
13-year-old girl dies after New Mexico school shooting
2 students shot in suspected gang-related shooting
6 injured in Georgia high school shooting
As many as 25 dead in Colorado school attack
Even kids get depressed
Say whatever you want. Do whatever you want. Laugh at each other. Ostracize each other. Murder each other.
Pearl school shooting suspect gets life for stabbing mom
Pennsylvania teen to be tried as adult for teacher's death
Philadelphia vice principal wounded; student detained
Boy, 13, doesn't know why he shot classmates
Student in custody after teacher, school aide shot
What freedom! What fun! Live it up, maggots. At least I'll be excluded from it all, just like I always have been. For once, I'm grateful.
Student kills 2, wounds 6 at Kentucky school
Suspect in custody after school shooting in Oklahoma
Teen gives up guns after 5-hour school standoff
Two teens shot to death at California elementary school
Colorado teens accused of plotting Columbine-style attack
I don't know why I ever tried to make sense of it.
Detroit high school shooting injures 3
FBI profiling suspect in Dartmouth killings
Kansas town in shock over Columbine-style plot
Michigan high school football players charged in rape of cheerleader
Student dies after shooting outside Baltimore high school
Chaos supplants the order of math and science. You're the freaks. You're the ones who don't belong. Bomb threats, anthrax threats, fighting, and abuse. You're the ones who threaten my existence, not vice versa. First and foremost I am a student, and my educational environment has been tainted.
Student killed in Michigan elementary school shooting
Two students wounded while trading gunshots at New Orleans middle school
Second person dies in Georgia shooting
Suspect planned 'mass murder' at California college
Georgia school lifts suspension of girl with Tweety bird 'weapon'
Who are you people? Why do you do what you do? And what do you want from me?
What failure. At least I don't even fit in with the others, not even the misfits. I'm an outsider of outsiders. Have at it, kids. Laugh it up. Turn my schools into a popularity contest, an entertainment center, an athletic stadium, a joke, a blood-fest. You're miserable disgraces of students. The bodies keep racking up in a monument, paying homage to your own stupidity. Forget standardized test scores. This is the dumbing down of America.
FBI School threat report not meant for student profiling