This Is Not About Vampires
I Hate Painting Joy, Mismatched Clothes, and Glitter and the Horny Girls who Pour it on my Head
I had art class third period. I hated art. I hated the kids who wore mismatched clothes who loved art and were in my class.
Today we were told to paint something that would evoke a specific emotion. We picked which emotion we had to paint out of a hat. Then, we would try to guess what emotion everyone else had tried to express through painting. Our teacher loved doing things that made us interact. I’m going to kill her.
“Your turn to pick Tyler!” Mrs. Shrub said, sticking an obnoxious pink furry hat in my face. Everyone loved her; she was eccentric, bright, and always smiling. I was considering ripping her teeth out one by one. Then hopefully she’d be too embarrassed by her lack of teeth to smile.
I picked a piece of paper out of the hat. Oh great. The emotion I had to paint: joy.
Yes, I definitely had to kill this woman.
“Hi Tyler!” A chorus rang out. I turned around from my easel to see three girls wearing mismatched clothes beaming at me.
“Your clothes don’t match.” I stated, turning back to my painting. I bet if they spent less time trying to make themselves look bad, they would end up spending a lot less effort and get a better result.
These girls were obsessed with me because I looked like a vampire from some book everyone was unhealthily also obsessed with. Everyday they tried to talk to me and everyday I insulted them. They appeared unaffected by my insults.
“Can I touch your flesh?” One of the girls asked eagerly.
“I find your appearance, voice, and personality all extremely obnoxious.” I considered asking them where they shopped for such horrible clothing, but decided I really didn’t care and would rather not give a reason for the conversation to continue.
The shortest girl who had noticeably straightened and dyed the shit out of her hair to look like all the other girls who were individuals had began twitching.
“Are you having a stroke?” I asked, not really concerned but hoping the answer would be ‘yes.’
The stroke girl suddenly burst into speech, “Will you become my lover, carry me on your back, save me from vampires, leave me, come back, marry me, impregnate me, rip the baby out of me with your teeth and change me into a vampire so we can live together forever with our half vampire baby while I do nothing to benefit the relationship at all?!” She said this in one breath and damn near passed out.
“I’m going to say no…”
Then she passed out.
The other girls started squealing in fright.
“You carry her to the nurse!” One of the girls suggested to me, as if by doing so I would bond with the unconscious girl and love her forever.
“Nah, she’s fine there.” I said turning back to my painting, “You can paint her face or something.”
Turning my back on the psycho mismatched-clothes-wearing horny girls was a bad idea. Shiny snow was suddenly sprinkled on me. Startled, I whirled around to see one of the girls upturning a container of glitter over my head.
“Please explain what you’re doing so I have a clear reason for why I have to kill you.”
“LOOK!” The girl screamed and pointed, “HE SPARKLES!”
“LOOK!” I screamed in retaliation, “HER CLOTHES DO NOT MATCH!”
Teenagers are assholes, so, naturally they jumped at the chance to laugh at the awkward girl who’s trying to be an individual. The rest of the class who wore clothes that matched began laughing uproariously. The girl who wore mismatched clothes ran out of the room crying, probably off to blog about her pain and sympathize with other girls who wore mismatched clothing to be individuals and who also blogged about their pain that could probably have been avoided if they just wore clothes that matched. It’s not that difficult. Just be normal, life is easy.
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Shrub asked, suddenly aware of the noise. It was just like her to notice there was a problem after everything had already happened. Way to be on your toes Mrs. Shrub. She glanced at the unconscious girl on the floor.
“Is she okay?” Mrs. Shrub asked.
“Yes. She’s dreaming about vampires for inspiration,” I explained.
“Oh, okay!” She chirped, easily convinced.
Mrs. Shrub then noticed my artistic rendition of joy: a girl being run over by a red SUV.
Today we were told to paint something that would evoke a specific emotion. We picked which emotion we had to paint out of a hat. Then, we would try to guess what emotion everyone else had tried to express through painting. Our teacher loved doing things that made us interact. I’m going to kill her.
“Your turn to pick Tyler!” Mrs. Shrub said, sticking an obnoxious pink furry hat in my face. Everyone loved her; she was eccentric, bright, and always smiling. I was considering ripping her teeth out one by one. Then hopefully she’d be too embarrassed by her lack of teeth to smile.
I picked a piece of paper out of the hat. Oh great. The emotion I had to paint: joy.
Yes, I definitely had to kill this woman.
“Hi Tyler!” A chorus rang out. I turned around from my easel to see three girls wearing mismatched clothes beaming at me.
“Your clothes don’t match.” I stated, turning back to my painting. I bet if they spent less time trying to make themselves look bad, they would end up spending a lot less effort and get a better result.
These girls were obsessed with me because I looked like a vampire from some book everyone was unhealthily also obsessed with. Everyday they tried to talk to me and everyday I insulted them. They appeared unaffected by my insults.
“Can I touch your flesh?” One of the girls asked eagerly.
“I find your appearance, voice, and personality all extremely obnoxious.” I considered asking them where they shopped for such horrible clothing, but decided I really didn’t care and would rather not give a reason for the conversation to continue.
The shortest girl who had noticeably straightened and dyed the shit out of her hair to look like all the other girls who were individuals had began twitching.
“Are you having a stroke?” I asked, not really concerned but hoping the answer would be ‘yes.’
The stroke girl suddenly burst into speech, “Will you become my lover, carry me on your back, save me from vampires, leave me, come back, marry me, impregnate me, rip the baby out of me with your teeth and change me into a vampire so we can live together forever with our half vampire baby while I do nothing to benefit the relationship at all?!” She said this in one breath and damn near passed out.
“I’m going to say no…”
Then she passed out.
The other girls started squealing in fright.
“You carry her to the nurse!” One of the girls suggested to me, as if by doing so I would bond with the unconscious girl and love her forever.
“Nah, she’s fine there.” I said turning back to my painting, “You can paint her face or something.”
Turning my back on the psycho mismatched-clothes-wearing horny girls was a bad idea. Shiny snow was suddenly sprinkled on me. Startled, I whirled around to see one of the girls upturning a container of glitter over my head.
“Please explain what you’re doing so I have a clear reason for why I have to kill you.”
“LOOK!” The girl screamed and pointed, “HE SPARKLES!”
“LOOK!” I screamed in retaliation, “HER CLOTHES DO NOT MATCH!”
Teenagers are assholes, so, naturally they jumped at the chance to laugh at the awkward girl who’s trying to be an individual. The rest of the class who wore clothes that matched began laughing uproariously. The girl who wore mismatched clothes ran out of the room crying, probably off to blog about her pain and sympathize with other girls who wore mismatched clothing to be individuals and who also blogged about their pain that could probably have been avoided if they just wore clothes that matched. It’s not that difficult. Just be normal, life is easy.
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Shrub asked, suddenly aware of the noise. It was just like her to notice there was a problem after everything had already happened. Way to be on your toes Mrs. Shrub. She glanced at the unconscious girl on the floor.
“Is she okay?” Mrs. Shrub asked.
“Yes. She’s dreaming about vampires for inspiration,” I explained.
“Oh, okay!” She chirped, easily convinced.
Mrs. Shrub then noticed my artistic rendition of joy: a girl being run over by a red SUV.