Tuesday, December 11, 2007


I regret having read 1984.

That's that. The first half of the book was wanton sex, and the second half was wanton violence.

I don't really like either. For example, the sex scene in Walking Tall pretty much ruined the movie. It was not central to the story and was, well, actually rather embarrassing.

I also hate the idea of "meaning" in fiction. I had to read three books over the summer: Jane Eyre, Fahrenheit 451, and The Glass Menagerie. The Glass Menagerie was just plain ol' dumb. That's why I didn't like it. Unexpectedly, I liked Jane Eyre, even though I did sort of set fire to my copy of the book.

But Fahrenheit 451, which was a favorite of mine when I was little, was the worst. It's like I have to find a secret analogy to unions and the author's life story encrypted into the text. Teachers never seem to understand that maybe books are written just because people like books.

Maybe they do. But the fact is, they continue to lead us into the torment of reading good books and then ruining them with dull analysis of obvious facts.

No wonder I'm considered some sort of threat to society. I'm always the first to voice the thought of Why in the h*** do we have to do this it's so obvious Ray Bradbury just thought constant TV watching was bad for us that thunders through each student's brain.

Then I'm labeled as a "disruption" or a "troublecauser" and sentenced to the horrible fate of psychological analysis.

I remember the time I was accused of planning to bomb the Holocaust Museum in Washington. A substitute teacher had seen the new firing mechanisms for guns that I had doodled idly on a paper during a boring video about The Bear Flag Revolt or something obscure like that. A regular teacher (who much to my joy has since been relieved of her duties) misunderstood my negative review of A Diary of Anne Frank as an NSDAP rant.

Really, I just thought the book was dumb. I've got no problem with Jews. I've had lots of Jewish friends.

Anyhow, I was sent to the guidance office under false pretenses. I had to explain to (poor) Mrs. Guidance Counselor (I really do feel sorry for her, she had to listen to me in a moment which I concede was not my best) why I love guns and why I disliked the diary.

Xeroxes of the essay and the guns, along with samples of my Cyrillic handwriting, were circulated among the school system - including elementary schools - to warn of my "dangerous" behavior.

I was discriminated against by those who fear dissent. I am proud. No, the picture you have gathered of me is wrong. I do not wear all black, I do not go to malls with AK47s, I do not do graffiti (anymore), and I am not socially inept. I do not need to kill because I have no enemies who could pose any threat to my existence at this time.

I am a normal kid with poorly defined political views. A lack of understanding between myself and the establishment caused me to suffer for my views. I was proud to be a martyr for a cause I believe to be correct: the use of free speech for the purpose it was provided. That purpose is to through public means engage in discourse in order to expose the illogical fallacies of those who are wrong and to find and disseminate truth.

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