Tagged: teen angst

Civil Tribal Warfare

Dear Planet Earth,

My conversations with Dr. Eimer have become increasingly less depressing over the past couple weeks. That all changed today as he went on and on about how I’m in a tribe now and that I have to put my own needs behind the needs of my tribe.

It was my own damn fault for telling him how isolated I feel from everyone else. Of course, he already knew about the graffiti fiasco and the laptop affair, so just admitting that it got to me was enough for him to diagnose me with “introverted tendencies.”

I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about anything besides killing mole men. And isn’t my refusal to examine my own feelings the highest form of sacrifice I can make for my “tribe”?

Probably not.


El Barto Was Here

Dear Planet Earth,

The rumor is Talpa’s back from his super secret mission and we’ll be heading out tomorrow onto Fort Some-Dead-War-Hero’s-Name. It can’t come soon enough, if you ask me. Things just got a lot more tense here since someone spray painted a bunch of cars with the message “DIE MOLE MEN” over and over.

With only a handful of kids among us, all eyes are on the angsty teen who disrespects old women and consistently asks to help kill mole men.

Of course, it wasn’t me. My respect for punctuation is too deep to forget a comma after “DIE,” though I won’t try to plead my case to my compatriots. The majority of survivors from invasions of mole people, and I include myself in this, like to hold on to the last vestiges of common decency they have afforded to them, silently berating those who have slipped into the tempting trap of organized anarchy — despite how washable said spray paint is or how much they may agree with the spirit of said message.

I’m getting enough dirty looks to know that I probably won’t be allowed to drive one of the minivans tomorrow.

Wake Up Call

Dear Planet Earth,

The honeymoon stage is over. Diana and I just had our first fight and it wasn’t pretty. The worst part is, she’s completely right. I haven’t taken any of this seriously, even when our very lives were in danger. I’ve been emotionally numb ever since the tremors stopped, and I probably lost all feeling after I lost Mom.

But these are desperate times. And when an unseen force causes global earthquakes and disrupts the entire flow of media — which in turn causes a homeless armed militia to hold you prisoner for days on end — every sob story is nothing but an excuse, a depressing distraction from the problems you need to conquer now.

I woke up today. I realized the only option I have left is bold action. Tomorrow we make our escape.

Kids Today

Dear Planet Earth,

I don’t even want to talk about it.  I should.  I should try to find the words to symbolize the innate and chaotic unfairness of it all.  But I can’t.

It all started with a fight with my mom and it all ended with a fight with my mom.  She randomly decided to lay into me about how I don’t seem to give a shit about anything, and how I’d rather play violent video games and smoke pot with my friends than make the least bit of effort to make something of myself.  Of course, she’s completely right.

But the bigger picture here is that I’m seventeen years old.  I’m not old enough to buy dry ice, let alone make a lasting impact on the world.  I’m a denizen of the 21st century techno-era, where blogs and social media promise anyone can be a celebrity and guarantee that no one ever will.  I’m living in a world where mothers care more about their children’s beneath average grades than the mysterious, unprecedented earthquakes that have been occurring in Uganda for the past three days.  And of course, these are excuses.

But there should be rules about the kinds of things you can say to your son, and saying that he’s acting just like his father did before he went crazy and started living on the street, that should be one of the things you just can’t say.  So, I’m staying at my friends place until that bipolar bitch apologizes or hell freezes over.