2009, you weren’t much of a looker, and you kicked me in the ass when I deserved it, and a couple of times when I didn’t. Economically weighing the pros and the cons of 2009, I’d say this was the worst year of my life. All iffy fifteen years of it! Good thing, I guess, that you don’t weigh years that way.

I’m pleased with the things I learnt from you, 2009, like how superior plaid pajamas are to other varieties of pajamas, and how to deal with bipolar II in a parental unit, and how to write without over-using dashes and fragmented sentences and adjectives like “ebony”. I’m less happy with the aforementioned ass-kicking you dealt me, but hey, that’s how it goes, I guess. I’m sorry I can’t be “profound”, or mention anything “game-changing” (one of my father’s famous phrases) or “miraculous” that happened to me this year. I’d say I don’t really care about New Year’s anyway, it’s just a flip of the digits of an intangible number, but I’m wearing a party hat, aren’t I? Gotta live up to it, right?

I hope we can part on good terms, 2009, good in the “I’ll pretend I didn’t see you in the supermarket check-out line” way, good in the “no more goddamn croquets, Miss Applebaum” way. Yeah. Just let your buddy 2010 know that, next year, I’ll be dealing out the ass-kicking.

There is no day, no fractal path, no possible dimension created from any combination of events leading from the Big Bang to the present where you would be able to do this. I commend you for trying, but I want you to understand: I will make you an aborted missionary, a defeated missionary. Little self-proclaimed apostle, I don’t love you enough. I don’t want to be your pagan concubine, nodding when you tie your hair back with a glittery rubber band and clapping when you try to tell me I’m not cool enough to hang out with you. Yeah, well, no.

This said I would like us to refrain us from killing each other. Look, we may be wary, but I don’t see why we can’t co-exist, especially since neither of us is at fault here. I cannot inject chaos into you, you cannot build structure in me, but we are. You may think it’s just me, but it’s always been the both of us. We cannot change for each other.

Oh, we’re all hypocrites, but insisting on modern concepts and gasping at ancient, respected ideals while simultaneously gripping onto nineteenth century etiquette makes you the quintessential charlatan. How can you pretend to be disconnected from preconceived notions when you are unable to fix your stereotypes? How can you insist on your status as a liberal, demean this religious group, point fingers at that politician, spread slander as though you are a righteous, free-thinking individual?

Who must adhere to what you deem is civilized? Who has agreed to your definition of what is correct? Who has given you the right to insult our upbringing?

I, Emma, formally withdraw from your law of decorum. I am the exception, the thoroughly savage human being. Go ahead, excommunicate me from your protocol. Tell me I haven’t brought up properly. Tell me I have no decency. Tell me my lack of courtesy makes me no different than a beast. It’s all well and good, darling. I’ll offer you the most impolite grin I can muster whilst gleefully waving good-bye.

Oh, do accept my humble apologies. I had absolutely no idea that I am now a lesser human being than you, with a character and morals quite obviously inferior to yours, and an intellectual capacity that leaves much to be desired. From ten extra years that you’ve happened to exist longer than I have, you are now the pinnacle of humanity, while I remain a simple amoeba.

Give me an adult who can operate efficiently, and I’ll show you one who can’t file tax returns, or tie his shoes. Give me a ten-year-old who liberally slaps other children on the playground, and I’ll show you the thousands of seven-year-olds splattered in the dust and the blood of their family members in undeveloped countries who function with a maturity that far exceeds yours, and mine.

These seconds you’ve lived don’t add up in a way that can be used against me, as proof of your own advancement. Rather, it’s the way your environment has shifted and moved, influenced you during these seconds and how you reacted to these changes that determines your capability. You are not superior because you are older. You are not better than me, and by supposing that your age now immediately commands duty and respect, you have shown me otherwise.

A mortgage, marriage, child-rearing – all these things do not make you better than those who have not experienced them. If you made moral (or immoral – whatever floats your boat, as they say) decisions and took these situations in a way that signalled some kind of maturity, you are, without a doubt, wiser that me. But you might not more intelligent, or better, or more mature. In any case, you do not have the luxury of assuming you simply are.

So you can take that smug grin off your face, you can stop addressing me as “little” in a way that is anything but affectionate, you can stop acting like I have no opinions of my own and you can quit asking me when “mommy is coming to pick me up”. You might have been breathing air for longer than I have, but that is hardly anything to be proud of.

Why this obsession with the opposite gender, ladies? You’re what, fourteen?And you don’t have a boyfriend? Forgive me for not being more understanding, but don’t you think crying is a bit excessive?

No? Okay, okay, don’t glare at me like that. We can look at this logically.
I suppose we live in a society where women are supposed to be involved in a romantic relationship to feel whole. They’re not complete without a man. I suppose part of it is evolution, too. After all, it is in Mother Nature’s best interests to keep the species going.

But you don’t have to feel that way, especially not now. Stop following guys, stop worshiping at their feet, stop looking jealously at girls that have one slung around their elbow, the newest accessory. Stop idealizing them, and stop acting as if they are the personification of PURE PERFECTION. They’re not. And I’m not, you’re not either.

I’m not going to say it’s Fate that you’ll find one some day. I’m not going lie, you might not. But going all DOE EYES and CO-DEPENDENT is not pretty. At all. It’s not going to get you anywhere.

You’re confident. Embrace independence! You have time. And even if you didn’t, even if you were eighty years old, you wouldn’t need a male to be happy. Okay? Okay. And this goes for guys too. I’d say the exact same thing to them. But I haven’t seen any crying in the halls as of late, so. You can also be in control of your emotions.

Stop this incessant weeping. What, have you not been listening? No? Okay. OKAY. I’m leaving now. There’s Alessandra, you can cry on her shoulder. I’m sure she’ll be more understanding.

/grumblegrumblenotlisteningtogrumblelogic

Regards,

Emma

I very well know that the only reason you ventured by me was because your BFF had sat with someone else, and the only other seat available was next to Doug, the aggressive, fake pseudo-intellectual who pretends to be uber-smart and anti-establishment so he will be liked, but achieves the opposite. And so, the only option was me, or a psychological analysis courtesy of Professor Doug. You took the easy way out.

There is a reason there is no human being but me within a three foot radius of my desk. I prefer to be alone. It’s not that I’m antisocial. It’s not that I suffer from chronic loneliness – I enjoy every second of it. And it’s not that I am one of those shy, inept girls who keeps to herself while mentally begging all the cool, hip youngsters in the room to come and make friends with her. You weren’t doing me a favor, and I couldn’t care less whether I am deemed “chic” enough to talk to.

Don’t misunderstand me, though. I wasn’t intentionally rude to you. I try not to be, but it appears that my behavior is constantly being misinterpreted. I didn’t talk to you at first because I am comfortable with silence, and because I did not wholly know what to say, not because I resented you for invading my personal “geek” space (a claim you insisted upon later). I don’t like to waste time with grudges.

Now, I don’t like to label, but upon observation I have come to the conclusion that you and I are polar opposites. You – chipped nail polish, pink pencil case, skirt pulled up past your navel, ostensibly so all the guys you imagine are checking you out can get a glimpse of your calves. Whatever. I don’t pretend to understand girl logic. I am the kind of person you regularly avoid, a nerd, but circumstances arose, and there we were, smiling weakly at each other.

I admire your attempts at conversation. Unfortunately, the first words out of your mouth were “I LIKE TWILIGHT! DO YOU? HAVE YOU READ THE BOOKS? ISN’T EDWARD HOT?” – and that just destroyed any attempts at civil communication we had. I suppose you thought every girl within the twelve to twenty demographic was automatically programmed to LUV TWILIGHT HEART N SOUL. You have found an exception to the rule. Congratulations.

I tried to shake my head, but you pressed onwards. After a not-so-riveting chat in which I pointed out some major plot faults in Twilight, and you called me ridiculous (best come-back of the century, by the way), we sat in silence. You were sullen, looking with contempt at my regular number two pencils, my buttoned collar and my non-designer-everything. I ignored you. You told me my digital watch was meant for boys, and I told you it was idiotic to place chronometric devices into categories according to gender. You started writing song lyrics into the margins of your book. I pointed out a spelling mistake (which, I admit, I did purely out of spite). You called me a grammar Nazi.

Things pretty much deteriorated from there, didn’t they? In retrospect, I think we would have gotten along if I had been less like myself and more glittery, pom-pom-adoring, aspiring cheerleader. But I would rather you detest me than I detest myself. Things have turned out for the best. Really.

After class you sniffed imperiously, stood up, snatched up your Prada satchel and gave me a venomous glance before marching towards the door. Your chin was up, your eyes half-closed – almost model-esque, as if you were half-expecting some Paparazzi to jump out of nowhere and start snapping pictures of you in all your irritated glory. I could barely stifle my laughter.

I trust we will not sit near each other again.

Yours,

Emma