  In Creative Writing, we were assigned to compose a brief 250-word story about either our best or worst day. Mine was a very emotionally-charged, graphic account of my grandfather’s death. It was cathartic, and the words on the page seemed totally foreign to me the next day at school. We numbered each word within the poem. Everyone was giving a slip of paper with an arrangement of numbers on it.
We arrangement the “poem” accordingly. This is mine: The My Was Like was in horrible navy years, With illness two graduate hated sheets most Death were man cancer first but married What life a hated he plaid I. In the years plaid sentiment with school What first I to was middle about Him to happinesses about grandmother fourteen I A graduate the known that fourteen from.
In raised uniform and my connotation comfortable To riddled father the helpless my be Of man came like was fourteen he Riddled that plaid about but came he In middle grandfather raised and all his Face plaid was great this he fourteen I peppered war I and I wrong To in middle like of he ill. With this I came people time my Stomach that horrible in some middle like. Mr. Lang is an amazing teacher. He is funny but doesn’t try to make us laugh. He doesn’t try to act hip to appeal to us, but he’s cool because he doesn’t care to be.
Plus, he went to Evergreen and likes my stories. ------------------------------------------ I have discovered that my journal creeps me out. I was reading through entries from last year, and I scare myself. Things like this make me question who the fuck I am: “I’m going to plan all my clothes for next week so Ben sees me at my best.” (Sept. 14th) But then there are things like this that tug at my heart: “3:30 PM and I find myself uninspired.
I realize how much I hate this shadowy, unrelenting numbness and yet the masochistic comfort it provides is something I can’t part with. This numbness can’t be chronicled; like a cold you feel coming on but can’t remember when it started. I’ve allowed myself to let ‘it’ gain momentum for two fucking years. Its crazy, but such an Anna-thing to do. It sickens me how predictable I am. My days have been spent in constant anxious-impatience. When the fuck will whatever is going to happen actually going to happen?
I can’t be content in the moment because I want a different, better moment to live in. As for social appearances, they have squandered down to zero. But in a painfully honest way, I don’t miss it. I LOATHED the games that are played in something as simple as standing around. The elbow-knocking and apologetic ‘Oh- sorry’ wrapped in sarcasm that borders on cruelty. Why do people have to be better than others? Why do people fuck (in metaphoric and actual sense) other people to get to the top? The politics of high school baffle me.
The preppies, stoners, trans-cliche, jerk offs (general jocks) WANT to be sorted out. It gives order to a hormone and Noxzema-charged world. By the act of God, I have sustained as position as ‘?’ I am a different person to everyone, and the list goes on. The point; WHY DO I CARE? I know its completely unacceptable that I want to know how people see me, and that a part of me is willing to conform to whatever it takes to make others happy.
Every time Ali or Andria or Heather say, “Hey Anna!” in between classes, I secretly hope someone hears. Just to see that I am not totally socially inept. This is all such bullshit.” (May 1) God, so much has changed since this journal. It’s an account of my descent away from materialism. The first few months are incoherent lists of clothing bought and gatherings I attended. There is a lot of me hating myself in between the thin black covers of my ninth grade year. It sickens me a lot to think that I was such a dreg, that I cared so much for things I hate so vehemently now. I was tortured about not having social group, and forever second-guessing myself. I wanted to be perfect. That’s exactly the word, it dominated so much of my thought; perfection. But my definition has changed, I think. I like myself a hell of a lot more now, uncombed hair, dirty t-shirt and all. Affectionately… Anna 
