Being a hormone-infested teenager, I will do close to anything to be cool. We all will. Teenagers’ number one favorite thing to do is perform bizarre tricks to impress others and gain respect. This is called “becoming cool,” and if you ask any teenager if they’ve attempted something strange to become cool, they will stare you right in the eye and tell you: “no.” That is because teenagers’ number two favorite thing to do is lie. But if a teenager were to be honest with you, they would truthfully admit that they have at least once done something completely wacky and life-threatening just to make their friends respect them.
My main example for this theory is something that I did this year with a bunch of my junior friends. If you recall my past discussion of my junior friends, you’d remember that these are the guys who kidnap me in their cars and give me atomic wedgies. Frankly, I don’t know why I hang out with them; probably because all my other friends think I’m badass enough to hang out with older kids and—being a hormone-infest teenager—that makes me become cool. While walking home from school with my junior friends, one of them spotted an old, crusty, dried up slice of pizza on the side of the road. “Hey Boony,” he said, motioning toward the trash heap where it was located, “I’ll give you five bucks to eat that piece of pizza.” And I, being the privileged, mature, and socially acceptable person I am, didn’t hesitate to reply “Okay!” The next thing I knew I was closing my eyes, holding my breath, and taking a huge bite out of a cold, dirty, drywall-tasting pizza as all my friends looked on in repulsion. The slice itself wasn’t that bad, it just would have been better if it wasn’t covered with dirt, bugs, and worst of all, mushrooms. Fortunately, my stunt granted me respect, cool points, and five dollars. Which, ironically, I spent on pizza.
Well, the new “cool” thing to do on these blogs is to make a list of ten things you hate about yourself. Most people, especially girls, would think that this would be easy (love handles, big butt, small boobs, camel toe, etc.), but the point is to think of 10 different, quirky things that set you apart from others. Without any preparation, stunt-double, or safety net, I am going to attempt to write ten different things that I personally don’t like about myself.
1. I am obsessed with candy. Every cent I earn, every dollar I find, every allowance I receive goes towards buying candy. I love it! And it’s not like I buy a crapload of candy and save it in a drawer for later, oh no! I eat it the second it is in my possession. I can eat an entire bag of Twizzlers (which is one of my favorites) in 15 minutes. This generally leaves me with a horrible stomach ache and makes me too full for dinner, but I just can’t get enough of sweets. My parents warn me that if I don’t stop my obsession, I’m going to pay for it later in cavities, weight gain, and a large loss of friends, but I could honestly care less. It will just be me and my fellow Twizzlers staying up late, sharing stories, watching scary movies, and becoming lifelong friends. That is, until I get hungry and eat them in 15 minutes. In a word, I’m addicted.
2. My ears. Ever since I can remember, people have been making fun of my ears, which are freakishly small. I’ll be standing in the lunch line, and a girl in my science class will find it an appropriate time to holler “WOW BOONY, YOU’RE EARS ARE TINY!!!” I then have to take time out of my busy lunch schedule to point out to them that, yes, my ears are very small, and that my right ear is also smaller than my left ear. And then I blessed with the intelligent question:
Why is your right ear smaller than your left ear?
My parents claim that it’s because I slept on my right ear while I was in the womb, but I really know that it is a more reasonable assumption to just say that it’s because God was PMSing and thought it would funny to torture as innocent kid by making every first impression he ever had be: “Hello, my name is Boony, and you don’t have to inform me that my ears to tiny because I already know.” Also, once it has been established that I’m a biological mutant, my friends (who have the combine IQ of tinfoil) ask me:
So do I have to talk really loud to you when I’m on your right side?
What was that? I couldn’t hear you. You’ll have to speak up. No, you don’t have to talk louder to me just because my ears are small. Instead, spend your energy flicking, poking, grabbing, twisting and pinching my ears. That seems to be a lot more fun because that way even when you miss you can say “Oh, I almost got them but I’m aiming at such a small target!”
3. My family. I know that that’s not necessarily something about myself, but if you even saw my family you’ve know what I’m talking about. Another point to further prove my belief that God is a prick with a sense of humor is that he gave me the most dysfunctional, counterproductive, and embarrassing family the world has ever seen. I can’t have any friends over, throw any parties, or even have people call my home phone because my brother will butt in and say something like “Hi, I’m Boony’s brother. I have a home video of him singing in the shower. Wanna see?” I’m also forced to walk everywhere because my dad is thoroughly convinced that I’m a spoiled and lazy brat, despite the fact that I play sports year-round, am required to baby-sit both my siblings every day after school, and only get two hours of computer time every day. And when I do get driven, my dad insists on getting out of the car and speaking to whoever’s parent I am hanging with, which usually leads to them entering the room and saying, “Oh hi Boony, your father was just telling me that you had exponentially small ears!”
I’m not going to continue to talk about my family because a) I’m growing more and more upset just thinking about them, and b) I don’t have that kind of time. I just want you guys to know that if I had the chance, I would slaughter my entire family and find a way to get out of it.
4. My taste in music. I like rap. I’m a huge fan of rap. Ludacris, Nelly, Mike Jones, D12, Jay Z, Eminem, and Lil Wayne are all crammed onto my Ipod, along with those goofy rappers like Jamie Kennedy, Afroman, and Will Smith. I don’t really listen to 50 Cent because it’s hard for us white people to understand what he’s saying. If you ask me, he sounds like he’s rapping out of half his mouth, almost as if he got shot in the cheek.
Likewise, I have some Tupac and some Biggie, but not a lot of it because it seems like the majority of their raps are reserved to them yelling at each other:
Tupac: Yo yo yo Biggie, you’s a poser you won’t fight,
You may look black but you’re skins really white.
Shoot me. I just get up and get mad
Black skins the last thing you deserve to have.
Biggie: Yo Tupac, I don’t got black skin, I got the other
My skin’s always red from the hickies from yo’ mother
Last night I didn’t fight I was in bed right
Yo’ mom still sex me even if I was white.
This type of warfare continued into they both got shot.
My point being that I wish I wasn’t so trapped in the cruel world of rap (I’m scared that if I listen to it too much I might get shot) and was able to branch out more. At one point, when I was in 8th grade, I got the sense that rap way dieing—you could tell because they were playing Busta Move by Young MC on the radio—so I got into the rock genera like AC/DC and Aerosmith. I bought badass t-shirts and stuffed my Ipod full of Bon Jovi and Boston. Thankfully I was saved by this horrible lifestyle—which I later found out can lead to long hair and head banging—when rap made a remarkable comeback, but I did keep a few of my rock roots.
I would truly like to get more into rock, but, sadly, I’m just too damn gangster to waste my ghetto ass on anything else but straight up old school rap (Halleluiah Holla Back).
5. My sleeping habits. As I mentioned before, I am a hormone-infested teenager willing to sacrifice my body in order to be cool. Well apparently part of being cool involves staying up until dawn and then getting three hours of sleep before school. In elementary school, the amount of cool was not based upon how late you stayed up, but how well you lied about how late you stayed up. In 5th grade, everyone went to bed at 9 o’clock. I don’t care who you were, where you were from, or what you were doing; you went to bed at 9. Of course, you couldn’t let your friends know this because they claimed to be awake until 10:30! This hour and a half difference could be the crucial factor between you getting picked first or last in kickball.
Unfortunately, we didn’t need to lie long, because once middle school rolled along we found ourselves needing to stay up late. Procrastinators would be up until 1 in the morning working on science projects, and the average nightly homework was nearly tripled! There was no need to pretend how late you stayed up now, because
a. The new thing to lie about was how many girls you’ve kissed
b. There was no more kickball to be picked last in
Nowadays, in high school, I stay up until 11:30 every night; no matter what. I generally don’t have too much homework (AKA: I don’t do too much homework), and my project procrastination rate has skyrocketed from the night before it’s due to the period before it’s due. Of course, this is nowhere near a kid in my science class, who is infamous for completing a month-long project in the 3 minutes between classes. I envy his motivational skills.
Because I’m up until 11:30 and I wake up at 7:30, this gives me eight hours of sleep. The average student gets nine to ten hours of sleep, but that doesn’t matter because the average student also gets swirlies and atomic wedgies. Most of the time I don’t even do anything all night either. I just sit on the couch and watch TV, or even play games on my phone. Then when 11:30 comes around, I take a shower, brush my teeth, and gather up my backpack, which takes another 30 minutes. All in all, I’m in bed by midnight, where I fall asleep listening to my Ipod.
When the morning appears, I am exhausted. I can barely open my eyes and I don’t drink coffee because it tastes like a monkey’s asshole. Instead, I fall asleep in my first period class and promise myself that next time I’ll fall asleep earlier.
Well folks. That’s all I can really think of as of this point as to what I hate about myself and in the near future I will give you the remaining half of the list. As for now, think about what you don’t like about yourself, and feel free to tell me.
Granted, I won’t be listening; I’ve got a hot date with some Twizzlers.