Hello. Itâ€™s a pleasure to speak to/with all of you.
Well, what Iâ€™d like to say first off is that I am a devout Harry Potter fan. I have been for as long as I can remember. Iâ€™d gotten up to the sixth book before Iâ€™d even finished fifth grade, and Deathly Hallows came out on my eleventh birthday.
Which makes me a fresh-faced fourteen-year-old girl.
I must be obnoxious to the core, you groan. Bratty. Spending all my time at the mall. Despising my mother. Listening to horrible music. And, most of all, I must bully everyone I lay eyes on in some way.
Or perhaps I â€œrealize how stupid those preps are,â€ and perhaps I sulk, and I whine, and I scoff at those brats with no taste at allâ€”despite the fact that I, too, seek boysâ€™ attention, and I dress horrendously in a way I feel is â€œrebellious.â€
But I donâ€™t.
If youâ€™d like to know me, imagine a female Holden Caulfieldâ€”only with less alcohol.
Iâ€™ve pondered and pondered and thought, and I canâ€™t find one thing remotely teenaged about myself, mentally. I donâ€™t like Edward Cullenâ€”but I find it barbaric to call him a ****** in order to upset one of his fans. Iâ€™m not very interested in boysâ€”or girls, for that matterâ€”of my age. I donâ€™t find â€œthatâ€™s what she saidâ€ all that funnyâ€”though I donâ€™t feel the need to undermine those who do to make myself better (though shouldnâ€™t I? Isnâ€™t that normal? Shouldnâ€™t I laugh in some screeching, false way for some stupid cute boyâ€™s sake?)
Iâ€™m an artist, and Iâ€™m actually quite good. Iâ€™m a writer, and I think Iâ€™m quite well. Iâ€™m a reader, and I find myself quite insightful. I actually donâ€™t have any friends, either. Shocking, I know, considering Iâ€™m such a warm and fuzzy kind of gal.
Though I canâ€™t face it, that Iâ€™m not a teenager, Iâ€™m not a commonerâ€”for if I acknowledge this thought, does that not make me a commoner immediately? Simply another elitist â€œanti-prep?â€ And so I return to my pondering, looking for something about myself I disagree with.
Everything is about dominance, and fighting, and competition, and being better than at least one other person. Itâ€™s so mindless. And then they look at me as if Iâ€™ve grown and extra nose as I shrug their attempts off monotonously and exhaustedly; How can you not CARE? This is ENTERTAINMENT! I donâ€™t want to fight, even if you disagree; donâ€™t you see? Iâ€™m just too tired, I think, but itâ€™ll be fruitless to say, so I single-handedly criticize their tacticsâ€”theyâ€™re all the same, anyway, amongst every one of them, itâ€™s not difficult.
Nobody likes you, they mutter uncomfortably.
Splendid. Good day to you as well. Oh, by the way, I adore your Gay Pride shirtâ€”isnâ€™t acceptance of everyone just grand? How about those transsexuals? Or a dirty old pansexual like myself? You support them?
Which brings me back to Harry Potter. I saw in Harry myself, even as a nine-year-oldâ€”Iâ€™d been shunned, almost, prodded and put at the stick, for serious anger issues brought about with my crazy old bat of a grandmother moving in with us. Some people liked The Boy Who Lived; some hated him outrightâ€”yet nobody could deny a sense of fear. The pompous air of the Ministry was a new outlet for my aggression. Dumbledore, the voice of reason amongst those just dong what they know to do, and not questioning anything.
At some point I think I actually fell in love with Sirius. And then eventually, as I reconsidered my beloved series, Remus. And then I started loving them both, at some pointâ€”and I seemed to be slowly slipping off the radar, giving up my quest for a friend that wasnâ€™t brain dead. I read Harry Potter againâ€¦ and againâ€¦ and again. And each time it made me happier, at least for as long as I read it.
And then I started to read fanfiction.
And then I started to read fanfiction with sex in it.
It was a horrible and terrible mess, and sometimes I cried for how disgusting I felt. I was disgustingâ€”Iâ€™m a little kid, twelve or thirteen years old, reading gay smut. I wanted to die so much, because I was so weird and creepy and horrible, but still my family loved me, loved me exceptionally in some cases, for they found me rather outstanding. The worst part, for me, was that nobody knew just how twisted I was.
But I couldnâ€™t stop, because it made meâ€”to my much-nagging conscienceâ€”happy, more than anything else. Iâ€™m serious. Nothing makes me happier than fanfiction, unfortunately.
I still want to die; so much it hurts, sometimes. I love myself very much now. But will there be anybody else who cares enough? I donâ€™t know if I can wait long enough for the conditional love I want, romantic or platonic.