Expectations

Expectations

I guess it’s an autobiography
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DEDICATION



To everyone who drove me to do this. You know who you are, so I will name no names. I will not say what I think of you. You have to read this to find out.

And to Joey Starinsky; the one who made me cry the most. I’ve still never head an apology.





INTRODUCTION



If I could be anyone else but me, I would. If I could be everything I am not, I would be short. I would be normal. I would be happy. But that’s a big ‘if’.

You want to know me. You probably never will, but I’ll try anyway. Picture any fifth grade girl. Any one at all. Brunette, skinny, normal height, studies, wears skirts etc. Good grades, everyone likes her. Okay?

Now meet me.

My name is not important to you, though I will tell you anyway. For future reference, my name is Jenn. There’s not more to it that you have to know. My looks are average; brown hair, brown eyes, tan skin, no freckles. My eleven year old co students are nothing like me; They laugh at crude jokes, they cry when someone calls them ugly, they think every boy older than them is cute (though they use the word hot and barely register the definition), and some even are under the very incorrect impression that the more mature boys are attracted to them. Of course, not all of them, are like this. Only about 90%. And my opinion about boys, well, some are alright. As friends. And I do not think that older guys think that I am cute. I would have to be an idiot to think so, even though my “friends” tell me that I am not ugly, nor fat, as I always say.

They are wrong.

You will find out why I use quotes around friends later on. It is not important now.

I am different.

And not in the quirky way. I don’t wear combat boots every day, and I don’t eat ketchup on my pizza. That last one is disgusting. I am eleven years old. I am five foot almost seven. And if you think that doesn’t matter, then you’re insane. Here, guest, you will realize why I use quotes around the word friends. It is because of the meaning of the word friend.



Friendfrend
:

1. A person whom one knows, likes, and trusts.

2. A person whom one knows; an acquaintance.

3.One who is not hostile, is decent towards another



Yes, exactly, dictionary. The last one, reading one who is not hostile. The word hostile means antagonistic, aggressive, argumentative, unreceptive, and unsympathetic, in other words, unfriendly. Nasty, mean, catty, whichever way you flip it, those delinquent, unfeeling, heartless, animal, rabid, uncaring, unloving, heartbreaking brutes cannot be defined, in any way, as friends. Saying enemies would be a compliment. Saying imbeciles would be a step up, saying meanies would be immature, and saying weirdoes would be ironic and hypocritical. I am the weirdo.

Of course, superficial, outer-edge, judgmental and shallow are the words by which those things go by. Judging everyone’s exterior without knowing the reason it’s like that, not caring if it deeply hurts him or her, and enjoying the victim’s pain. But sick, cold, pitiless, insensitive, and hardhearted have been the terms that I use to describe the majority of those things that I rub elbows with. I do not wish anything bad to happen to them, but insulting them in this way, does, in fact, blow off a lot of built up steam. Anger. Vehemence. Fury. Rage. Hurt.

This is my salvation. As I type at my computer. Letting the world know what I think about these people, and letting them know I had never done anything to them to deserve this, and letting them know that the pain I feel has scarred me for life. Emotionally. Though emotions mean nothing to them. If you are one of them, then you will not understand what emotions are. If you are one of them, you have none. The battles rage inner and outer, and no matter how far away from the others you are, there is nothing you can do. If you fight back, you are fueling the fire. If you let it go, they shout it louder. If you simply ignore it, the pain builds up inside of you and eventually makes you break down. But it’s not as if that wouldn’t have happened anyway. It still would have later. And the pain is unbearable.

I have never been a dork. I have never been a geek. I have never been normal. I was always somewhere in-between normal and popular. But I wouldn’t want to be popular. It’s like being famous. Everybody cares about your business. Like those gossip magazines. Who cares if Brad and Angela broke up? Who cares who got plastic surgery?

Another thing is that I hate labels. They are about the stupidest, most idiotic, meaningless and degrading things in the world. In the words of Shakespeare, “Would a rose by any other name still smell as sweet?”. What if a football player was really smart and ugly? What if a cheerleader was nice and brunette? What if a geek was dumb? What if a nerd was the cutest guy you’d ever met? You wouldn’t even give them a try because of their labels. Would you? Don’t think less of yourself if you say no because you were born into the label-induced media, built on stick-thin little platinum blonde white chicks. It’s sickening.

There. Now you think you know about me. You think you know about my life, but really, you wouldn’t unless you have been in the same, or a similar situation. If you have, you know it’s horrible and you want just to die. If you haven’t, then either stop reading this book, because this may scar you, too, for life afterwards. Or, simply, continue reading this book to see how some animals treat other people who they have put under the classification of ‘friend’, only to rip them out again with a heartbreaking crash to their self-esteem and make them question whether or not their existence was a big mistake. Or if you are one of the animals I speak of, then you will probably continue reading this for enjoyment. The enjoyment of my pain. Yes, guest, continue reading, even though I told you to stop. I said stop. I swear, you do not want to read the rest of this book. Stop! Go into your little world of dreams where everyone is equal, because I assure you, that even though that should happen, it won’t. It never will.





CHAPTER 1

My mother shook me awake that day, because I never use my alarm clock; it doesn’t wake me up. It’s amazing how everyone else’s wakes me up, but not mine. But, then I glanced at said clock, and saw the time; 7:12 AM. That can only mean one thing; school. Oh, how I hate school, and everyone in it. Everything is too easy; figuring out the people and how they think and the schoolwork and what the teachers think of their students; it’s too easy. They put me in the advanced class in second grade, because my I.Q. was 155 or something like that. That made my life worse. I know that I never would have been normal, anyway, but I don’t need the entire school analyzing my grades and my work and my words. I don’t need the teachers expecting perfect answers, and I don’t need the surprise when I get a B. Who ever said Bs were bad? No, that’s not good enough. Not good enough for anyone who thinks it’s not good enough for me. And that’s everyone.

I ate breakfast, pancakes, and that day, my mom poured my syrup for me. She always did that, even though I told her that I could do it myself. But she did it anyway.

It would always annoy me, that whenever someone cut them, they’d flip over onto their side, or a few would get separated from the rest. I don’t know why, but I though that they might get jealous that they didn’t get any poured on them. That’s why I wanted to do it myself. I’m weird like that. I would never punch a pillow to relieve my anger, because it would hurt it. I would never hug one of my stuffed animals more than another one, and whenever I touched something with one hand, I had to touch it with the other. There’s no explaining it; I just have to. My mom used to yell at me for that a lot when I was at the supermarket. Something about dirt and germs…anyway, she gave up when I was eight. It was a habit.




AUTHOR'S NOTE

this is just a sample. If you like it, please review or rate, and I will return the favor. And, if you think it's good enough,I'll continue it.
thank you for reading and possibly reviewing or rating, or both. Thanks for your time.