Saturday, November 17, 2012


thoka maer

This is a good representation of how I’ve been feeling lately (and every other teenager who’s walked the planet.)


I saw The Perks of Being a Wallflower the other day and I didn’t cry. Maybe sleeping with a textbook under my pillow every night (lalala subtle metaphor lalalala i’m grool) is rotting my brain. I was just like “eh.” I forgot how to feel moved by stuff, but watching Bones is pretty cool, I guess.

Okay, let me explain—I read the book (eye red uh buk). I saw the trailer. I saw the GIF’s on Tumblr. I read peoples’ reactions on their blawgs. I’ve had a fair dose of pop culture about suburban dysfunction, psychiatric hospitals, charismatic and flamboyantly gay boys who feel ~isolated~, orange prescription bottles, unconventional beauty, father-son relationships, getting high, flashbacks of sexual abuse, and dark-haired and dark-eyed boys who are nervous and sensitive and looking for love.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower covered all of this stuff and stuck it into one generic plastic package. Inside the package is a Hostess cupcake with pristine pink frosting that makes you feel like a vinyl owning indie queen. Your indie cred gets shaken—gasp! Other people shove these cupcakes down their throats without tweeting about the CHILDHOODPLASTICWANDFAIRYPRINCESS VIBES!!!! The processed food-ness of the cupcake glares at you and the hydrogenated oils trickle down and leave a little moisture mark on the cardboard—the media and the glitz and the make-up and shiny polished-ness of it are howling with laughter and empty calories.

This movie is just mass produced for millions of people, made from scraps of the rest of the movies out there. It’s all of this interpersonal crap that’s going to be eaten up by everyone you love and everyone you hate and everyone in between. There’s practically nothing in this movie or cupcake that’s new and exciting. Nothing will glitter more than it already does in the sunlight.  No one’s lives are all that interesting and THERE ARE A LOT OF EPISODES OF THE BEST THING I EVER ATE, SO OBVIOUSLY NOTHING YOU ATE WAS ACTUALLY THE BEST OR POSITIVELY INFLUENCED YOUR EMOTIONAL STATE OF BEING IN THE LONG RUN. We live for something to change us and rattle us from the inside and out, something more supreme than anything ever. (That doesn’t really exist, so I guess that’s why people have sex—which I will clarify for potential adult readers that I haven’t taken part in yet.)

Maybe everything is mediocre at best and you just have to rely on the endorphins from the physical endurance of picking yourself up when you fall down and overcoming fears and stuff to keep you going.


P.S. Don't you just hate cynical idiots?

P.P.S. Hopefully not, because Daria is a popular show and The Catcher in the Rye is a popular book and I would lose your readership (which I work relatively hard for.)




(not that it means anything)
(but that I FEEL SOMEWHAT WORTHY!!! <3 <3 <3)

No comments:

Post a Comment