What goes on in ones brain in the middle of the night.

It's 4:56 A.M.
I haven't gone to sleep yet.
I probably won't.
Typing is hard when you can't sleep. My fingers feel funny.
I can't remember the last time I made physical contact with someone.
I cried myself to sleep again tonight. But I didn't actually fall asleep so I just cried. In the middle of the night. Into my pillows. For a period of time.
College is ridiculously easy here.
I'm confused.
My parents are slightly insane.
I didn't hook up to my feeding tube tonight so if I die of malnutrition that's why.
I can't comprehend why people are so afraid of dying.
Tomorrow I am going to wear my new giant sweater with a skull on it.
I still hate this girl that I haven't seen since eighth grade.
The reason being is because she is very pretty and seems to have everything put together.
She's a model.
I have left campus less than 4 times since I have been here.
The relationship I have with my parents is a rollercoaster that is only moving down.
The only constant in my diet is toaster stroodles.
They are quite delicious.
My hair is falling out.
I am easily intimidated by overweight people.
If I wasn't so scared of them I would have said "fat girls." But I went with overweight people instead.
My eyelashes are all na-tur-al and blonde because I haven't worn mascara in very a long time.
I have made a goal to not shave my legs until Christmas.
Luckily, I do not keep my goals and will probably shave my legs this week.
I miss you.
I have to see my therapist on Wednesday.
On a scale of 1 to 10, one being "if you had a gun you would shoot yourself" and 10 being "you've never been happier," where are you today?
I'm a solid 2.3
I don't think I can have kids.
I genuinely like some people. I genuinely dislike most people.
I believe I may have issues with authority.
I love reading.
My biggest fear is that my dog dies while I'm gone.
He's not doing so great.
I forgot to kiss him goodbye.
Did you know that owning cats gives you a higher chance of getting depression and other mental illnesses?
They don't have Grandma Sychamores bread here.
I found this highly upsetting.
Almost as upsetting as having to talk to my mother.
I throw up.
I have a high chance of getting cancer when I'm older because of it.
Why can't I just bite it now?

Welcome to Rehab

Maybe it was the way I took a nap in my oversized suitcase for 2 hours instead of packing.
Maybe it was the way each time I cried I ended up hysterically laughing.

Maybe it was how we kissed in front of terminal 2.

Maybe it was my carry on. Everyone else had purses and bags. I had my record player.

I think it was my mom. I told her what was happening to me. And she did nothing. She said "well if it's that bad, we should probably get you to the hospital." It was that bad. I had it all planned out. It was all I could think about. But she didn't take me to the hospital, she just left. 

Maybe it was the low paid psychiatrist.
Maybe it was the plethera overweight girls.
Maybe it was the dress code.
Maybe it was the online shopping.

I think it was my birthday. The random presents left on my pillow. How the 4 people took me to dinner because they felt bad for me. Or maybe they were paid to do so. I don't like pity. I don't like being a burden. Or how for the first time in my life, every single one of my nine siblings called or texted to say "Happy Birthday, hang in there, things aren't as bad as you think." And when anyone asked how I was doing, all I could think to say was: "It's my fucking birthday." But I can't say that to my professor. So I'm silent.

Maybe it was the absence of food.
Maybe it was how my sister told me she didn't want to talk to me anymore.
Maybe it was the extra furniture piled up in my room.
Maybe it was how everything was worse than I thought it would be.

I think it was that Skype call. I fell asleep talking to you, which I like to do because then I don't cry myself to sleep. I never used to cry. Now I do. But I opened my eyes to look at you on my dimmed laptop screen, and you were crying. Big tears. And my heart broke a little bit. 

Maybe it's the amount of sex offenders in this town.
Maybe it's how my roommates are afraid of me.
Maybe it's how I haven't gone to church yet.
Maybe it's the Breakfast Club poster hanging in my room.

I think it's how I don't belong here.

Of Chances and Changes

I started high school with short hair. It had purple and blue streaks. All the other girls got in trouble for having brightly colored hair, but I didn't. I think it was the confidence I had. No one questioned what I was doing, even the adults.

I don't have that confidence anymore.
The kind that says "I'm perfect--I would never do anything wrong."

I was quiet and kept my head down. I blushed when the football players talked to me. I studied for tests. I had never been kissed but I had read so many ridiculous romance novels that I felt like I had. I didn't swear. I didn't lie. Ever. I only had one notebook filled with my random musings. I never pushed the rules. I never questioned anything. My bra size was 32A and and my jeans were a size 7 and I really didn't mind.

Now I'm starting college.

I have a different confidence now. One that says "I don't give a shit about anything."
That would probably because I like to pretend I don't give a shit about anything.

(I give a shit.)

So, college. I've already been kicked out of an apartment. I flip off the football players. Police Officers have caught me making out about 5 times. I swear too much and I lie. ALL THE TIME. I keep my head up and I have an excellent "don't bother me face" that works incredibly well.  My sarcasm has reached perfection. I have at least 35 notebooks filled of my random musings. I'm a feminist and sometimes dress slightly slutty. I'm a size 3 in jeans and my bra size is now a 34D. Let me repeat that, because it's kind of a big deal. My boobs are now a D cup. I would like to end there, because my bra size is very important, and it would create a nice emphasis but I won't, because that would make things uncomfortable.

Actually, I AM going to end it here.

I am officially a big-boobed blonde.

Here I come world.

I might have a chance now.

Shipments from Urban Outfitters

Things that fit in a box.

Frozen Mozzarella Sticks

Condoms

Ticket Stubs

Film Negatives

Toothbrushes

Envelopes

Cookies of any kind

Rock collections

Shipments from Urban Outfitters

Sticky Notes

Mexican Coke

Things that don't fit in a box.

Kisses

Souls

Reckelessness

Music

Things too big for boxes

Excuses

Stereotypes

Fears

The world probably doesn't fit in a box

Maybe we're just living in a giant box

Time

Sarcasm

Second Chances

When you first kissed me I tried to put it in a box but it didn't fit no matter what I tried. I still felt it on my lips but it was disappearing rapidly. I desperately needed somewhere to put it. But the box wouldn't accept it. So I took the kiss out of the box and gently gave it to my memories. The kiss meant something. Every kiss must mean something. Is there such a thing as a fake kiss? The staged ones, the planned ones, the filmed ones, do they mean nothing? A kiss is never just a kiss. And kisses don't fit in boxes.

Sometimes my soul does the talking. It says hello and introduces itself. It knows you're going to be my friend. It keeps talking while I stay silent. And when I begin to walk away, apart of my soul latches onto you. The first time we met my soul knew, it knew, and it gave a piece of itself to you without any doubt. It does that sometimes. I don't give it permission and I don't really appreciate it. People are walking around with pieces of my soul. I would like them back please. I can put them in a safe box where they won't get hurt. But they don't fit. It doesn't work that way.

The psychiatrist always tells me to put things in my box. "Put your fears in your box my dear" she says. "Put your past in your box" she says. "Put your cynicism in your box" she says. "Put your recklessness in your box," she says."This will help you get better!" she says."Lock up your box. Now throw away the key," she says. "Throw away the spare key, too. Now throw away the box," she says.

"Shut the hell up," I say.

Please stop trying to put me in a box. 

Even if I fit.

Just Make a Run For It

M Y  D E A R E S T  G O D,

Do you actually know that you're God? Are you living in oblivion? Are you even alive? Do you know that we see you as perfect? Do you know that we worship you? Do you know that we are living in hope to become you? Is this hope for the hopeless? Because God, be honest with me, do you like being God? Are you looking at us thinking that we are ridiculous because we want to be you? Are you miserable and wanting us to CHOOSE THE WRONG so we don't end up like you? Well, just in case, I've decided to play it safe and walk the beautiful line between right and wrong. I have been told it's impossible, but I've been doing this for years. I have no idea where the hell I'm going. Do you?

Are you disappointed in me? I just don't know what I believe in anymore. But God, I believe in you. I'll always believe in you. I will even believe in you in February. I don't believe in anything in February. I don't believe in me. I don't believe in anyone. But God, come February, I'm going to believe in you even if I pretend you don't exist. Even if I pretend I don't exist. Because God, I think you save my life everyday.

You're my friend when I'm lonely. I know that. You're always my friend even when I'm not your friend. But God, do YOU need a friend? Are you lonely? I can be your friend. Maybe you're bored. I can entertain you. Maybe your sick of being God. Maybe you want to run away.

What would happen if you ran away? Maybe I don't comprehend all that you do. Would babies be born? Would people die? Would the sun rise? Would the rivers run? Would smiling still exist?

God, you probably shouldn't run away.

But if you need my help doing so, give me a call. I'm assuming you know my number.

Real Talk: I Never Planned on Living This Long

Here I am. I'm telling the truth.
The truth?
This kid is not alright.
The truth is I'm alive.
I'm alive. But I'm not the only one.
So the truth is: I'm not different.

I paint but I'm not artsy. I drive a hybrid but I'm not a hippie. I'm blonde but I'm not a cheerleader. I'm not a goth or a prep or a skater. I'm not some treasurer or co-captian. I'm not gay and out and proud. I'm not that kid from Sri Lanka, not a triplet, not a drunk, genius, or slut. I'm not even one of those super Mormon girls pretending to love everyone.

Pretending pretending pretending

I'm nothing. There's nothing worth looking at here.

I'm sneaky and get caught, I'm nice and faking it, I'm drunk but I'm not drinking. I probably agree with liars all the time. I'm just wandering around in search of a really nice mental hospital. But no one will let me in.

They don't know I'm battling these things inside of me. They don't understand how hard I've been trying to keep it all together. All they can see is the expertly painted mask that I have plastered on my face.

That's all anyone sees.
Anyone but him.

And I'm in love with him, thought I'd throw that in. This was not meant to be about love because I am sick of all the shit about love. Love love love. But this is now about love because everything comes down to love. How can the world love even fit in this mouth that tells so many lies? At least lips are pretty. Can lips be pretty?

We're swimming, but not in the lake. We're swimming through life. We're swimming in this life and I think I'm drowning. I'm drowning in this sea of supposed good new. I drown when I look in your eyes. But I like your eyes. Your eyes are my poison and I've been frantically staring at them all along. But this damn drowning makes me feel alive so I'm not going to look away. How does the word ALIVE even begin to explain this? Alive doesn't explain it. Alive can't explain it. But maybe love can. Maybe love can explain everything. But the word LOVE doesn't even fit in my mouth, which we already talked about and hey, I'm repeating myself again. Will you please just let me into your really nice mental hospital?

Of course not.
Butterfly you.

The things that keep happening to me appear to be a work of fiction. But this is not fiction. This is my life. And this kid is not alright.

I'm not alright because life's a bitch.
I decided this when everything shoved me down that hill--while pointing and laughing.

And when I finally stood up, my boots were untied and my hair was ruffled. That's when I realized it.

Life IS a bitch. But you. YOU are not.
You're not and I chose you. I chose you before I knew of your suffering, before I knew of your strength. And my bitchy life isn't so bitchy, because I still have it all and it's pretty bitchin' compared to you.

You have nothing. But me. You'll always have me.

Because life's always a bitch. And this is our life. So this is the story that isn't a story. Because life IS a bitch. But we're not alone. And hey, life's still a bitch. But at least we're alive.


My name is Kat Stratford.
And I just want to be in a really nice mental hospital.

So this is posted pretty late, but here it is. Real talk. Poetry slam thing. I can't believe I read this in front of all of you. Sorry about the swearing. Okay I'm not sorry at all but I've been working on being nice. Well nice-ish.

Graduation put me in the hospital.

It was supposed to be grand. Graduation. Class of 2013. Funny hats and nun looking gowns. Tassel cord things that cost $6.50. High heels and black ties. Fancy dresses and fake smiles. Perfection.

It's a load of bullshit.

I don't care if you got a gold or silver tassel cord thing that cost $6.50. I don't care if the dress you were wearing was $200 at J. Crew or $12.47 on Targets clearance rack. I don't care if you took pictures with every person you ever knew, pretending you'd been besties for life. I don't care if your parents brought you flowers and your whole family came to cheer you on. I don't care if you posed in front of the camera while walking across the stage or tried to do something funny so maybe you would be a little more remembered. I don't care where you went to eat after or how many pictures you posted on Facebook. I don't care if you gave Chip Coop an open condom while shaking his hand.

I don't care.

I think it was supposed to be a good day.
I think that is what I've been told all high school.
I think I was supposed to be happy.
I think I was supposed to smile when I walked across the stage.
I think I was supposed to be on time.

I think I was supposed to care.

But it's all a load of bullshit.

And I ended up in the hospital.
Where they didn't even give me the good drugs.

This says bitch 19 times.

Life’s a bitch

Please excuse me for my language

But life’s a bitch to me

Life’s a bitch to you

I never knew how perfect

How perfect my life was

Riches, Beauty, Friends

Until I met pain

Shook hands with despair

Kissed defeat on the cheek

And slipped regret the tongue

And when I finally stoop up

My boots were untied

My hair was ruffled

And I realized

Life is a bitch

Life’s that bitch

That brings home

Your high brother

Your drunk brother

Gives it a desperate hug

And whispers beggangly

We love you more

Than them

Life’s that bitch

Who calls to announce

She’s dead

At 7:52

Without out bothering to check

Her vitals

Life’s that bitch

Who knocks on your door

Holds a gun to his head

Demands a hundred million

And declares he must cut

All loose ends

You’re a loose end

Life’s that bitch

Who paves the rest of your life

With 43 steps to the bathroom

Where it forces you to throw up

And doesn’t even bother to hold

Your hair

Life’s that bitch

Who cuts open your stomach

Lays your intestines on the table

And leaves a friendly reminder

You will never be the same again

Like you didn’t already know

Through the scars

Life’s that bitch

Who asks

How do you feel?

Over and over

And over

Expecting some miracle

While taking away

Every single angel

That could possibly perform one

Life’s that bitch

That takes off its cowboy boots

Catapults them toward your face

Gives the look of shattering disappointment

And gives you permission to cry

Exactly 3 tears

Life’s that bitch

Who makes you fall in love

Then decides

It no longer feels

The same way

And leaves you wondering

If it was just trying

To get in your pants

Life’s that bitch

That cripples you

Desensitizes you

And leaves you so numb

That the venom it delivers

No longer changes

The expression

On your face

(But you.)

YOU are not

You’re not and I chose you

I chose you before I knew of your suffering

Before I knew of your strength

And my bitchy life

Ain’t so bitchy

Because I still have it all

And it’s pretty bitchin’

Compared to you

You have nothing

(But me.)

You’ll always have me

Because life’s always a bitch

And this is our life

So this is the story

That isn’t a story

Because life IS a bitch

But we’re not alone

And hey, life’s still a bitch

But at least

We’re alive

I remember so much more.

I remember coloring on the wall behind the green couch with old crayons. That is when I got my first kiss. He name was Marcus and he was asian. We were 4.
I  remember going to the store with her tired eyes and buying 10 gallons of 2% milk 3 times a week.
I remember the day he threw my cat off the deck. It never came back.
I remember getting attacked by a swan. I was 3. You were getting your graduation pictures taken, but you didn't actually graduate.
I remember the warm blankets from all the hospital stays.
I remember the day the dog swallowed a knife and died. I cried at school. They took my to the only cold drinking fountain.
I remember the first bra she bought me. It was purple and polka dotted. I was sitting on the stairs.
I remember when he was born and being called out of second grade computer class to be told that I was an aunt at 7 years old.
I remember when I fell in love with you. We were driving home from Smiths. You made a dry comment about the cookies tasting like crackers.
I remember the first time I ever doubted God.
I remember when she died and I cried at the foot her bed, holding her cold hand, for hours.
I remember the first time we cuddled and my dad walked in so you gave me a nougie and we started wrestling.
I remember Flintstone Gummy vitamins.
I remember my first sex talk. I was 9. It was my birthday. It was the first time in my life all my siblings were gone from the house and I was alone with my parents.
I remember sitting in the police station for 5 hours. I remember the detective and his mustache. I remember the swivel chair and the only magazine.
I remember when he held me close and gave me a hard kiss on the lips. He cried. He thanked me for saving their lives. We were standing by the refrigerator.
I remember the first time I swore. I said hell. We were in Lake Powell. I tried to convince you I was talking about the weather.
I remember the first time I lied. It was her Birthday and we went to the Fun Dome.
I remember when I saw you cry because of all the shit our brothers were pulling. Nobody noticed but me.
I remember answering the door and letting the police in. It was normal occurrence. Another mailbox had been blown up.
I remember when he walked home from rehab. He had crazy eyes and crazy ideas. And I was the only one who accepted him.
I remember stepping on the scattered action figures. It stopped hurting by the time I was 4.
I remember my first rated R movie.

I remember when he was born and he couldn't breathe and no one would tell me what was going on.
I remember the first time I said the F word in my head. I was mowing the lawn. I remember the first time I said it out loud. I remember being pissed.
I remember asking who he was when he came home. You told me he was our brother.

I remember peeing in the corner of my room because I wanted to be a dog.

This is a box

This is a box.
This is a box and I haven't told you about it.
Can you smell it? It smells like spray paint.
It's silver and red and blue and black and there are sparkles.
I liked when I spray painted it because the glitter exploded in the air.
I felt like I was in wonderland.
I liked when I spray painted it because I was just in a sports bra and the breeze smelled like summer.
My dad walked outside and gave me the how are you my offspring look? then walked away.

This is a box.
It says I don't care.
It says Been a million years full of fears but I found my girl.
It has a stencil of Jackie Chan on it. It turned out on really cool so I laughed. We need to make those shirts soon. Except I don't remember your asian name, do you?

This is a box.
This is a box and you don't know about it.
It's not like I didn't want to know.
It just hasn't come up.

In normal conversation I don't say THIS IS A BOX!

But this is a box.
It's full of things that mean nothing to anyone. Nothing to me, nothing to you. But everything to us.

This is a box.
And I might just burn it one day.

Pretend pretend pretend

I wake up. Each layer of make up and lotion adds on. Cover up, eye shadow, liner, mascara, powder, blush, leg cream, body lotion, perfume. Not a lot, but just enough. I still look like me, just not the real me. I put the rich alpine girl mask on.

I walk out. I say good morning, I say amen, I say goodbye. I smile through tired eyes, give a kiss on the cheek. I put on the perfect daughter mask on.

I get into my car, turn my music up. For the first time, I breathe. 

I walk into class. I put my head up, shoulders back, and my music on. I don't talk to anyone in the hall. I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgment to anyone that says hello. I talk to my teachers. I smile to some. I make sarcastic comments. I do as little as possible to get a perfect report card. I'm quiet if I want. I'm funny when I want. I make friends when I want to. I am girly when I need to be girly. I'm annoying when I need to be annoying. I'm happy if I have to be happy. I put the perfect student mask on. I put the perfect friend mask on. I put the perfect teenager mask on.


And this is how to pretend. 
This is how to get through high school.
This is pretend
Pretend
Pretend

Non-Fiction fumes are FREAKING me out.

You told me I was beautiful last night and for the first time in a long very long time, I actually felt beautiful. It didn't matter that I was wearing sweats and covered in paint wrapped up in my ratty blanket. It didn't matter that my make up had rubbed off hours before and my hair was having a party without me. You told me that is the reason you stare. I always thought it was because of the ridiculousness of my life. I run into walls constantly. I look drunk when I walk in high heels. I dance as I unload the dishwasher. I can't hold still. Ever. I'm the annoying girl that shakes the desk in class. I can't even hold still when I sleep. The things that keep happening to me appear to be a work of fiction. But this is not fiction. This is my life.

I snuck back into my house last night at 1:49. But my parents didn't notice. They thought I was my druggy brother-if they actually heard me. But according to my stealth, I don't think they heard me. I crawled up the stairs and tiptoed to my room with exceptional talent. This has nothing to do with anything. But it took me a long time to fall asleep and then I woke up before the sun did. So I started to paint. (When I can't sleep, I paint. Which is why I'm always covered in paint.) And I got high off all the fumes. I did not enjoy that.  So I ate some toast. Which is my sanity. Toast is now my sanity. I really, really love toast. And fun fact, my mom does not have the ability to make toast. She can't do it. The toast she makes is terrible, no matter what.

I'm watching Gossip Girl right now. I hate it. I really, really hate it. But I'm still watching it. Please judge me. You know what else I REALLY HATE? Throwing up. I really, really hate it. The hate I have for throwing up puts Gossip Girl to shame. I pretend I'm okay with it because I don't know what else to do. I pretend I'm okay. I'm not.

I never planned on living this long. I really don't know why. I just thought that I would be the kid that died young. Doing something stupid, getting some rare disease, being murdered, falling down a mountain. I don't know. I've come close to all this crap. But I'm making these STUPID decisions for my future, and I don't know what to do because I never planned on having to make these decisions. Though it doesn't matter anyways because my parents are making the decisions for me. You know, because they think I'm a slut. Which sadly, I think I am okay with that.

I apologize for this post. I've been in a closed room painting way too long today.

Damn the fumes.

Black Markers and Newspapers

                 

Adult consciousness is indecipherable. change intoxicated our apologies. Actually, desire is fear.

Find me the nicest mental hospital.

Did you know that this is my sanity? This is my sanity so basically I am not a sane person. I just want to be in a really nice mental hospital. My parents are rich and care what people think, so if they actually knew I was crazy, they would put me in a really nice mental hospital. So I'm considering letting them know about my craziness. It's there. It's there. It's there. Because I just want to be in a really nice mental hospital. I'm thinking a white fluffy bed and pretty plants and craft time every day at 4:30 with meds coming every three hours.

I've been trying so hard to keep it all together.  I haven't cried in months. I do my hair everyday. I shower more than the average person. I actually like shaving my legs. I wear expensive clothing. I always make my bed. I laugh and smile. So the last time you saw me, I probably looked put together. But I'm not. I've just been trying to keep these things inside of me under control. You probably think I'm a nice person. I'm not, just letting you know. And I don't know who this YOU I'm talking to is, so basically I am talking to myself again. Mom, start calling around. Find me the nicest mental hospital.

Remember the first time we talked all night? That's when I decided my life goal is to end up in a really nice mental hospital. Is there a college degree for that? Oh yeah, it's called creative writing. Because all the best writers go insane. But we talked all night and I'm in love with you, thought I'd throw that in. This was not meant to be about love because I am sick of all the shit about love. Love love love. But this is now about love because everything comes down to love. How can the word love even fit in my mouth? How can the word love even come out of this mouth that tells so many lies? At least my lips are pretty. Can lips be pretty?

We're swimming, but not in the lake. We're swimming through life. We're swimming in this life and I think I'm drowning. I'm drowning in this sea of supposed good news. I drown when I look in your eyes. But I like your eyes. Your eyes are my poison and I've been frantically staring at them all along. But this damn drowning makes me feel alive so I'm not going to look away. How does the word ALIVE even begin to explain this? Alive doesn't explain it. Alive can't explain it. But maybe love can. Maybe love can explain everything. But the word LOVE doesn't even fit in my mouth which we already talked about and hey, I'm repeating myself again. So Mom, start calling around. Find me the nicest mental hospital.

And please hurry.

Of Chairs and Despairs

Title a chair? Thanks for the crumb, Nelson.
Just kidding. This was kind of nice. 
Yes, nice. Oh the generosity I am feeling with my adjectives tonight.

Stupid Six Word Memoirs by Me

Wondering Words from the Unwonderful

Dear God,

I'm so sorry to disturb you.
But I need inspiration and I think you are inspiration.
The kind of inspiration that deserves to written about.
And I know you have the Bible which is all about you, and this, well this is petty and miniscule, but I have something to say.
And I don't think this is the kind of thing you actually want to hear about-
I'm not thanking you for my family or for my blessings.
I'm not asking you to help my brother or make my mom happy or fix my stomach.
I'm just here and I want to talk.
I was just wondering how you see things.
Because this dog is looking at me like he knows we are doing something wrong.
Are you watching the world through the dogs eyes?
I think that would be entertaining. Also, I think I would've made a better dog than I am as a person. 
Or do you have a big screen up there? Lots of headsets and microphones and control panels?
Do you point and laugh at our embarrassing moments? Do you get bored? Do you want a day off?
Do you take offense that I don't see myself as pretty? Because I've been told you created me based off of you. So I'm sorry about that, I bet you're good looking.
Are you disappointed? 

When I said I had something to say, I guess I was lying. My apologies.

Happy at Four Hundred and Seventeen

Sometimes I like to remember what life was like four hundred and seventeen days ago.

Like is the wrong word. It's more of a habit.

Sometimes I wish I was there four hundred and seventeen days ago.

I could tap myself on the shoulder with my shaking hands

Maybe give myself a hug.

Tell myself the secret through a smile:

Life's a bitch, but you're not alone.

But I can't even remember if I was happy four hundred and seventeen days ago.

I like imagining that I was.

Because I was hoping to be happy by seventeen.*

*Saturday At The Canal by Gary Soto

I Do Not Like People in General

I hate him.

I hate her.

I hate them.

I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you.

These thoughts can't escape my mind as I walk down the school halls. I hate everyone and this a known fact to the general public. I hid it for about sixteen years but finally just gave up. I gave up pretending to like everyone I came across because I am not capable of loving freely. The fake smiles, touchy hugs, and girly squeals coming out of my mouth were a contradiction to every thought I was trying to lose in my mind. So now the headphones are in with my glare in place and I am hating everyone I come across. It's quite enjoyable actually. No one bothers to say hi because I no longer make an effort to respond.

I continue to shove my way through the suffocating halls. People move out of the way because my shoulders are back and my head is up. I walk with purpose- I walk like I hate everyone. I pass possibly the most annoying girl I know. And I am perpetually annoyed by all high school girls, so this is saying a lot. She is the girl who posts about her boyfriend every ten minutes on Facebook. She screams and launches herself into hugs when she sees anyone she's ever been in acquaintance with. When she talks to you, her face comes too close and she smells like cotton candy. Ick.

One of the football players pushes against my shoulder. I push back and give him my best death glare. He's an idiot. I don't even know his name, but I would punch him in the face if I had the chance.

I bounce off idiot football player and land into another one. Are they even adept to being alone? I don't have to try and put my pissed off mask on because I am pissed off as I look at this football player. He's hot. Just stating the facts. His life is perfect. He's rich and good looking and exceptional at every sport. The hardest thing he has ever done is lift weights and decide what college scholarship to take. I hate him because someone needs to hate perfection.

I regain my balance and continue the walk of hate. I pass one of the cheerleaders. I can't believe I used to be one of them. I hate all cheerleaders because I see what I could have turned out to be, but I especially hate this one. She always looks perfect. Her smile is always in place and has the body girls kill for. She has no personal style, but always in style. She laughs too much.

The next girl I see is a nobody. No one really notices her but she has a group of friends. Not pretty, not ugly. Just there. Filling in the spaces. She has no opinion on the world and lets people push her around. No personality whatsoever. I don't know how she functions that way.

I pass the town bicycle. She has made out with so many guys I almost respect her. But mainly it is just gross.

This girl is wearing so much make up that I could scrape it off her face. She seems to be popular, but has no real friends. No one can really see past all the make up and skinny body.

The girl passing me is an emotional wreck. She is always sobbing and sniffing or giggling and skipping. And it's not just a week out of the month, this is all the time. She is so dramatic. I do not like her but I enjoy the entertainment she provides. Everyday is something new.

"Kat." someone says from a distance.

I continue to walk. No one ever calls my name.

"Kat." It sounds like an old man.

 I take my headphones out and look around.

Huh. The people surrounding me continue on to class.

I turn my music back on and start hating again.

One guy actually braves waving to me. I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgement and nothing more. I have several classes with him and he is always high. Very much so. He is flirty and touchy and his jokes are never funny. His best friend is walking next to him. The one always by his side. He doesn't say much but I bet he has some pretty funny thoughts if he ever let them be known.

A hand lands firmly on my shoulder and startled, I  jump. "What the hell!" I mumble as I rip out my headphones and look to the hand.

It is an old man.

A very old man.

A very old man that I do not know, I might add.

I give him my best "who-are-you-also-I-don't-like-when-people-touch-me" look. He doesn't acknowledge the expression though it was quite obvious. He just smiles kindly and moves his hand to the small of my back. He starts to lead me through the halls. I walk with him. I'm curious and confused and I firmly believe once you hit the age of seventy you can do whatever you please, so I am going along with this.

He says nothing. I look at the people I'm passing, no longer making a mental hate list but wondering if they find it odd I am being escorted by a grandpa down the hall. No one seems to notice. He walks slowly but steady. He also walks with a purpose. He is walking like he does this everyday. And somehow, I am still going along with it.

"You know that girl you hate? The one you find annoying because of the constant Facebook posts and squealy hugs?" He starts talking as if continuing a conversation we were having. His voice is deep but soft, the comforting kind of voice.

I shyly nod my head.

"The reason she tells everyone about her boyfriend? For the first time in her life, she feels loved. She is touchy and needy because she's never had that. She didn't know it was possible for someone to love her. When she was two years old, her Dad shot her Mom. She was in the room. She was adopted into a strict family and has never felt at home."

I am shocked. I can't say anything, which is rare for me. What? What is he saying?

"The big stupid jock? His Dad makes him play football. It's all he knows. Next year, he will get a scholarship and go off to play college ball. He's going to blow out his knee. He will never play football again and that's all he knows. He will have no where to go with his life."

He pauses for a moment and looks at me with his stormy gray eyes. My mouth opens, but he continues before I can mumble...well mumble something unintelligent.

"And Mister Perfection over there? You're right, his life is pretty perfect. It will stay that way for a while. But his wife is going to get cancer and die when he is thirty years old, leaving him with three kids." His eyes start to slightly water. "And he will sacrifice everything so those kids will be able to have the kind of life he had growing up."

"The cheerleader? She's the one who marries Mister Perfection. She dies at twenty-nine after battling cancer for a couple of years. She is one strong girl. She laughs too much because she sees the good in everything. She believes in being happy."

He stops walking. I look at him. He looks at me with sadness. I don't know if he is metering my shallowness or trying to figure out what makes me hate everyone so much. I can't stand him being able to see through me so I turn my head. I am ashamed.

"The girl that fills in the spaces? You don't like her because she is pushed around? She's was raped last year. She hasn't told anyone yet. She is terrified. She doesn't think she will ever be good enough for anyone. She's...she's just trying to get by." His voice falters. I can tell he wants to say more, but he can't.

"And the girl who uh, well, gets around?" His voice is quavering, but we both smile. "Her parents are in the middle of a divorce. They don't notice anything she does. She needs some attention. She just needs to feel loved." He pauses and we keep on solemnly walking.

"Her, with too much make up? Her Mom tells her she isn't pretty enough everyday. She's anorexic. She has been told she is ugly her whole life. She piles on the make up because she is just trying to get her Mothers approval."

My eyes have started to brim with tears, which hasn't happened in months. I still can't look at the old man. Speaking of, where did this old man come from? WHO? Who are you? I think this loudly, but say nothing.

"Emotional wreck over there? I understand your annoyance." He grins, but it doesn't come close to reaching his eyes. "But she just cares too much. She loves everyone she comes across and is disappointed too easily. She suffers from depression. And right now, her life is good. But when everything gets a little harder, she will go numb. She will stop feeling anything until she is barely a person at all."

"And the kid that is always, what do you say? The kid that is always...high? His older brother introduced him to drugs when he was thirteen. He'll clean up when he is older and it will be difficult. But his best friend? The quiet one?" He stops in his tracks. I keep walking a few steps so I turn around to face him. He is looking directly at me. "He was going to kill himself last year, but his best friend, even if he is a druggy, stopped him. He saved his life."

The old man puts his head down and starts to cry. I am standing two feet away from him just watching. My lips start to quiver. I can't help it, I start to cry with him. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I ever hated any of you.

He looks up at me, emotional in a way I can't explain. He is so defeated, but so happy. Like he knows something I don't. "My dear, there is not a person in this world you wouldn't love if only you could know their whole story."