Scrambled

So today someone told me, "You're a retard." Yep. Pretty much. A couple of years ago, I'd be really upset; you know offended and so sensitive I'd be about this close to crying. Now, however, I just laughed in their face and said, "Pfft. Try harder next time to insult me."

One problem down, only fifty thousand, eight hundred and seventy left. No biggie.

In reality, I want to squish myself under a rock and hopefully die there. No, I'm not suicidal. (Thank the lord for small miracles! I don't think I could take a personal death wish at this time, or really, ever.) Yet I'm so close the edge of uncontrollable insanity I'm sort of scared to really explore. Because let me tell you something--once you fall off the cliff, you can't climb back up.

I'm not talking from personal experience, but you meet enough crazies during your lifetime you start to turn into them. But it's okay, right? Crazy, unpredictable psychopaths aren't anything to worry about, obviously. Just as long as they aren't armed they're probably harmless.

Probably. But just give them the weapon check to be sure.

I suppose the point of this post is to talk about how terrible my life is right now. Okay, so not life-threatening terrible, just terrible enough to make me want to pull my hair out (and it's working! I woke up this morning with a chunk of my hair in my hand. Yeah--disturbing).

Why is life so kind and giving to the undeserving and so cruel and unjust to the people who deserve the good things? No, instead we get the short end of the stick, the losing side of a stalemate game of tug of war. And no shit, we're losing. Or maybe I should say I'M losing. It's frustrating after a while. What am I going to tell my friends when I get bald by sixteen? What then? Just call me Katie the Hairless. Sort of like Michael Jackson being called Wacko Jacko, except this time I'm blessing myself with the unflattering nickname.

But that's my life, so it's nothing new. I'm used to it. But even though it's not a surprise when I wake up with fricking huge zit on my forehead or walk into English class forgetting my essay, I can't say it doesn't bother me. HOW DOES THIS WORK?!

And it's funny, because in my public school I was the brunt of all the 'retard, weirdo, crazy psychopath' jokes and now, at my crazy, this-close-from-mental-institution therapeutic school I'm considered normal.

That's right. Normal. As if such a thing were even humanly possible.

Have you ever been embarrassed for someone? It's the worst feeling in the world. Because see, when you mess up or make some terrible blunder, it's okay, because you know what you did wrong or what you did that put you into said mortification scenario and you can, technically, fix it or not do it the next time.

Now with another person who puts themselves into a cringe-worthy situation it's different. You can't scream, "You stupid idiot!! You don't say that!! Go to Wal-Mart and buy a filter, would you?! You are driving me insane with other person-induced embarrassment." I. Hate. It.

I'm not a mean person, but I hate watching other people make a fool of themselves and either not notice or know what they're doing wrong and don't care. But this person...in the middle of Biology first period he started breaking into some weird rendition of who-knows-what, and made some weird comparison to a cell membrane that somehow relates to a character in Super Mario.

Um...what?! How do you make that leap? Cell membranes, in case you didn't know, are a part of a cell that acts like a defensive wall. Mario in Super Mario apparently relates to a cell membrane because some weird creature jumps out at Mario at one point.

I don't normally swear, but...what the fuck?!

I have to look away or bury my head in my hands. I just wince whenever he opens his mouth. How can someone be that fricking oblivious?! It shouldn't be possible! My guy friend, Brian, gets understandably pissed off, and while I get it, I also want to diffuse his easy-to-make-appear temper that easily flares the second said guy opens his mouth. He can't make a single comment or movement or action or behavior that doesn't set Brian off.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if it's a lost cause. Maybe the Human Microphone will learn faster if I unleash Brian on him.

Tempting, but I'm too nice. God dammit. Maybe I should take some First Class Bitch Lessons from the (shh!) Mental Institution's most well-known female dog.

Nope. Can't do that, either. What's wrong with me? Wait, stupid question. I think we all know the answer to this one:

I'm 100% certifiably insane. So how does this possibly make me 'normal?' Besides, normality is an insult, at least to me. I mean, Jesus Christ, normal is so boring. It's like being able to choose between frog legs, calamari, chocolate-covered coach roaches, and a hamburger, and you choose a hamburger.

Or it's like getting the decision to go back to public school or stay at your (Secretly disguised) MI and going back to public school.

The one thing I can count on is going to my MI and getting the finger or someone doing something pretty sketchy.

But hey, that's life. You don't even have to go to my school to see what I'm talking about. Just take a ride down to your local Wal-Mart and I can guarantee you'll see EXACTLY what I'm talking about.

Anyways. I think that's enough for now. Besides, my depression is settling in, and let me tell you, rampaging hormones, teenage angst, and bipolar depression is a horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE mix. I write any longer and I think I really will dive off the deep end.

To that end, you should thank me. But I suppose I'll forgive you if you don't. That's okay, though. Our generation's manners are severely lacking. Hmm. Maybe instead of becoming a writer I should tour around the US and lecture kids and teachers in schools about the importance of politeness.

Another problem with our generation? We know how to talk, but we don't know how to listen. Go figure.