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ymustiI wore my second year class shirt to sleep today. It just so happened to be conveniently laid out on top of all of my other clothes on the first drawer I opened. Being too lazy to bend down and look for anything else, I just picked it up and used it.
When my dad saw me in it, he was telling me about how I should value the shirt and try not to wear it out since it was something to remember my second year by. Well, I couldn't defend laziness. I said nothing.
Truth be told, I really don't care about this shirt. It's a handsome shirt with a nice print, sure. I could even wear it going out if I wanted to be recognized as it had my last name printed at the back. Just kidding, strangers knowing my last name shouldn't be too much of something. Anyways, the thing about it is that I realized something with what my dad said (I'm really a douche, I tend to listen to my dad and internally twist his words, I might be a nice villain, or at least anti-hero if your prefer). I realized that I didn't tell him a single thing about my second year.
My second year of high school was the worst year, by far. It was the year I made real friends (I suppose they are real; they haven't let me down, yet), and, boy, were they the coolest bunch of people I've ever met, and that's the beginning of my downhill descent. I made real friends, became a weirdo, technically got bullied (I suppose you can call it that, but I sort of like to believe, in the other party's defense, that it was a high school thing-- I mean, we were different, so of course they had to make fun of us; if you can't tell, I'm trying my best at the moment to think like the average high school student) , developed social anxiety, and well, just closed myself off from the world. If that doesn't sound like a fun social experiment (I'll call it that to make everything sound good), I don't know what does.
It was emotionally scarring, definitely, but I suppose it's the best thing a bunch of people can experience together. And, if you have yet to notice, I'M ALIVE! Socially dead, yes, but physically alive. And I suppose that should be a good enough reason to not want to remember my second year, dad.
But it doesn't mean that it was all bad. For one, I got in contact with my inner writer who was wishing to be released from the depths of the icky, squishy stuff inside me (Dad, this may also be the reason why I'm getting too lazy to study, you might as well understand this as well). I developed my creativity and I started self-teaching the craft. I, also, as I said before, got to meet a bunch of cool people-- my immediate circle of friends and the other guys in my outer circle, who I could have big talk with as I would like. And, I should be truly grateful for this last thing, I found who I was. I sort of scratched the top of the riddle of who I am and what this world is. At least I think I did.
The misanthropic me, my inner guard, would beg to differ. Second year was by almost all means horrible. As much as it pushed me inside the walls of who I am in which I found, understood and love myself, it still pushed me in. It still pushed me in.
And it's because of this people-hating side of me that I don't hold things dear. I don't feel much for things. I do not attach memories to things, because if I did I would just be full of hate. That's why I don't care about this shirt, because if I did, I would hate it. It's just a thing to me; it doesn't quite play a significant role in my history.
I wonder if I should show this post to my dad. He might want to understand me.
When my dad saw me in it, he was telling me about how I should value the shirt and try not to wear it out since it was something to remember my second year by. Well, I couldn't defend laziness. I said nothing.
Truth be told, I really don't care about this shirt. It's a handsome shirt with a nice print, sure. I could even wear it going out if I wanted to be recognized as it had my last name printed at the back. Just kidding, strangers knowing my last name shouldn't be too much of something. Anyways, the thing about it is that I realized something with what my dad said (I'm really a douche, I tend to listen to my dad and internally twist his words, I might be a nice villain, or at least anti-hero if your prefer). I realized that I didn't tell him a single thing about my second year.
My second year of high school was the worst year, by far. It was the year I made real friends (I suppose they are real; they haven't let me down, yet), and, boy, were they the coolest bunch of people I've ever met, and that's the beginning of my downhill descent. I made real friends, became a weirdo, technically got bullied (I suppose you can call it that, but I sort of like to believe, in the other party's defense, that it was a high school thing-- I mean, we were different, so of course they had to make fun of us; if you can't tell, I'm trying my best at the moment to think like the average high school student) , developed social anxiety, and well, just closed myself off from the world. If that doesn't sound like a fun social experiment (I'll call it that to make everything sound good), I don't know what does.
It was emotionally scarring, definitely, but I suppose it's the best thing a bunch of people can experience together. And, if you have yet to notice, I'M ALIVE! Socially dead, yes, but physically alive. And I suppose that should be a good enough reason to not want to remember my second year, dad.
But it doesn't mean that it was all bad. For one, I got in contact with my inner writer who was wishing to be released from the depths of the icky, squishy stuff inside me (Dad, this may also be the reason why I'm getting too lazy to study, you might as well understand this as well). I developed my creativity and I started self-teaching the craft. I, also, as I said before, got to meet a bunch of cool people-- my immediate circle of friends and the other guys in my outer circle, who I could have big talk with as I would like. And, I should be truly grateful for this last thing, I found who I was. I sort of scratched the top of the riddle of who I am and what this world is. At least I think I did.
The misanthropic me, my inner guard, would beg to differ. Second year was by almost all means horrible. As much as it pushed me inside the walls of who I am in which I found, understood and love myself, it still pushed me in. It still pushed me in.
And it's because of this people-hating side of me that I don't hold things dear. I don't feel much for things. I do not attach memories to things, because if I did I would just be full of hate. That's why I don't care about this shirt, because if I did, I would hate it. It's just a thing to me; it doesn't quite play a significant role in my history.
I wonder if I should show this post to my dad. He might want to understand me.
no subject
Date: 2014-04-10 02:03 am (UTC)I guess I used the wrong word. I think what I feel is more along the lines of "it really isn't something I want to hold dear/go back to". But I suppose you could say that I just want to be away from that place.