“I can't believe in the things
That don't believe in me
Now it's your turn
To see misanthropy”
-“1996” by Marilyn Manson

My final day of some form of freedom—the right to stay awake, ranting away on AIM until 2:00 AM. The right to spend the entire morning sleeping, and the entire afternoon reading and writing poetry. All gone. Here comes the regimen, the routine. The programmed (dis)obedience all high school students adhere to. As I sit, ever apathetic, as they reattached the leash and give me my ID code.

Now is the time for reestablishing self-identity. This is going to be interesting for me, considering how difficult it’ll be for all those poor fools with a vocabulary of 25 words attempt to drop me into some bizarre stereotype. I’m almost gleeful as the prospect of watching some preppy slut or hick jock’s head explode as they grope desperately for a pigeonhole. Tee hee.

But really, in all honesty, I kind of wished my family had moved, that I were to go to a completely different school, somewhere far away. I’ve never felt this was before, loathing familiarity, safety.

My angry little head-voice has been rather misanthropic lately.

Well, ready or not.