unnecessary circular thinking.

Despite what I may have said about embracing adolescence,
I'm having the hardest time accepting my age.

I can deal with my peers. I wouldn't wear eccentric old woman shoes or pull my self-inflicted-stress-induced graying hair out while maintaining a 4.0 GPA if I was worried about what they thought.
(I realize I put down the jewfro a lot, and I have the growing tendency to panic about my pizza face. But something tells me that those are normal teenage girl insecurities. That doesn't excuse them; I still need to make strides toward getting over them.)

It's the older ones that get me everytime.

Does it have to do with my lifelong fascination with the 80s?
Nah, ripped tees and big hair were great, but both of those are achievable at age fifteen. The Smiths, New Order and The Cure were great, but Bernard, Moz and Robert are listenable nowadays, too.

Does it have to do with my early upbringing, surrounded by fast-talking intellectuals?
Nah, most kids get over that. They shy away from it. They rebel. They smoke pot.

Unfortunately, I'm not most kids.
I want to do it all.

For example, not only do I need an A average in the Bastafarian's class, I need him to look at me as a personally responsible, mature, caring human being.
Not only do I wanna finish Lanky Lovitz's chemical compound lab, I need him to know that I know what a dissertation is, and I need to exchange witty banter with him.
Not only do I want the A's and the superficial opinions, I want a flawless exterior.
I want better calves. I want a butt. I want blemish-free, dewy skin.
I want to earn a wolf-whistle without consequence.
I want everyone literary to hear my poems and my prose.
I want to get into St. John's.
I want to change someone's life.
I want to make a valuable contribution to society.
I want to become a responsible adult.

I don't want silly weaknesses, like panic attacks.
I don't want a thin frame that earns remarks questioning its anorexicness when all I do is eat.
I don't want to interrupt my family.
I don't want clutter.
I don't want raised eyebrows and belittling chuckles. (Unless they're directed towards my wardrobe; I ask for that.)
I don't want old friends from the old school to look at me as an uncaring apathetic beast when I really am just busy.

Aside from that,
today I attended a writing conference for English teachers and their students.
It was overrun with busfuls of multiple motley crews,
from the stereotyped broad-shouldered chain-wearing crew to the conforming nonconformist crew to the unkempt bespectacled junior high crew.

My state's poet laureate was a special speaker there.
His character seemed appropriate,
his background and persona as politically correct as poet laureates' usually are.

I didn't anticipate his blatant pretension.
It seemed to be his goal.
He was self-righteous.
He cracked some awkward jokes with no air of "justkeeeding," and then instructed us to laugh.
He implied that he presumed an auditorium full of creative writing students weren't "literate," and had no idea what "oral tradition" meant.

I can't decide whether or not it disappointed me.