  I am opinionated. Really opinionated. “I-am-going-make-presumptions-about-you-and-cuss-at-you-internally”, disgustingly, grossly opinionated. In some cases, I think, being opinionated is a good thing. You have morals, beliefs, passion and you know who you are and what you feel.
But then there are people like myself, who mindlessly judge others on teeny-tiny details. For instance; that gentleman is wearing a leather belt. Well, obviously he isn’t socially-conscious. There’s a boy with a faux-hawk listening to headphones. He is wearing a New Found Glory t-shirt. He is also, in my mind, a worthless hypocrite. There is a girl reading Seventeen on my bus. She must be mildly illiterate. So, some of these are slightly exaggerated. But the overall sentiment holds true; I think very highly on my own opinions (Veganism, music, literature, etc.
) and give little weight to others. The revelation about this came tonight, via Robin. We were talking about our careers for the future. It went something like this; R: You were thinking you might want to write music reviews, right? A: Well, sort of. I don’t know. R: Cause well, you know, that might not be the ideal job opportunity for you. **awkward silence in which I get it** A: Oh, yes; I would bash just about everything. R: (imitating my voice) ‘This isn’t indie. It sucks.’ A: Well, yes… I don’t really have the musical background to be considered any kind of critic, either.
R: Plus, you know, you hate a lot of stuff. A: A lot of crap . R: True. A: I guess that’s bad, right? R: No, it’s just… very much who you are. Who I am . Who I fucking am. Why do I care if someone eats a hamburger or buys a Chingy LP? Why do I avert my eyes when I see someone in faux-punk paraphernalia? So I don’t like these things.
Wouldn’t it make more sense to avoid the things themselves, instead of the people using them? ------------------------------------------- I have developed a theory about intelligence. I am not intelligent. Period. I am very, very good at pretending to be smart. I am very capable of sounding smart. I can use biggish words and pronounce things correctly. I can enunciate properly. But in reality, I am fooling everyone. I do not understand math. In any way. At all. I do not understand why letters with numbers and tangents and radical signs co-exist within a single problem.
I can’t figure out the complexities of binomials. I can’t fucking graph anything. I can’t pass this class. What really makes me mad is that I never thought I would be this student. I have never been the smartest of the smarties, but I have been up there at various times for various reasons. There was a time not so long ago, that I had grasped that illusive 4.0. And now, with nothing to show for it. I can’t recite Shakespeare, I can’t take a proper photograph, I can’t comprehend Newton’s Laws, I can’t remember the censuses of Europe, and I certainly cannot complete a trigonometry worksheet. Lost are the days when I would help others with their homework. Ah, the precious moments spend de-coding Twain’s prose!
The beauty of explaining civil war politics to others! The glory of reciting memorized poetry (“ Sam McGee was from Tennessee/ Where the cotton blooms and blows …”) along with my teacher! What the fuck happened?! If there only was some sort of way to bullshit my way through Integrated 1B math. If only! Affectionately… Anna 
