Who knew that Simone Simons would have it so right?

I resent being awake. Period. And don't you dare give me that crap — needless to say, I would think there's some universal applicability to every person who sleeps only two hours every night, and is callously dragged awake every crack of dawn to go to a place one would rather burn down than see again. Even worse is the struggle to maintain consciousness and lucidity. Seven hours. An entire day of physical torture. And then the biology teacher has the gall to chastise me for my lack of dedication. Well, isn't that swell, coming from a person who goes to bed at 9 pm and plainly has no concept of what lack of oxygen really does to the human brain. You know, as impossible as it is to believe, I would really like to do that essay and pay attention in class and contribute to intellectual discussion and be an attentive, superficial prat (since that's what most people seem to want), except that my neurological processes somehow don't seem to function, and your vapid wisecracks do nothing to alleviate the situation if not exacerbate it further, since none of those silly remarks are at all amusing and instead cause me to feel as if I'm trapped in a crowd of chuckling dunderheads.

This entry would've been a lot shorter except that no one, especially not callow, Pollyannaish pop music lovers, would see the justification behind my hatred of the waking hours. And you think I despise everything I see… there's no shortage of insular antagonism, is there? And I mean on your part; of course I know there are individuals out there waiting to lash out and turn it against me. Perhaps you envision some sort of heroic circle of triumph, and the diminishing ogre at its center, vanquished by a righteous, united front… I don't know, I merely speculate. But then, why don't you add me to your castrate list? See if I care. The whole world could do without ovaries.

And I don't say "happy birthday" because I know you don't need to hear it again.