Desmond Thomas

I am seventeen.
My days are usually spent laughing,
while my nights are full of dreams.
Some say I'm a pessamist, but I say I'm a realist.
They will say the same about my friends.
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pretty much how i feel:

"And you know what it all comes down to, Ax? Everything we've ever known, everything we've been taught since the moment we were born--everything our parents told us, everything books and television and the radio and the movies and the entire fucking world told us--is all bullshit. Lies. Every form of reality we've ever been presented with is fake. It's built up to look good and clean and technicolor and make you believe that everything can go like it says in the script and there'll be a happy ending. Everyone will laugh in unison, the hero will ride into the sunset, the closing credits will roll and everything will be okay again. But it won't. None of that is real. None of it. And that's why I'm angry, Axel--because the entire fucking world is fake. And the worst part is," he paused here and his chuckle was tinted with a mild kind of hysteria that made Axel frown--or maybe it was more like self-pity, but it was a broken sound and made his throat curl into a lump. "The worst part is we believe this shit. We want it to be real and we'll go so fucking far even to pretend that it is. People all around me live out their lives every day steeped in this shit, all this fake, and they love it, they let it suck their souls out until they're brainless automatons who never question anything. I go to school every day and that place, everyone in it, it's so fake it makes me sick. And then I go down to the thrift store and buy up piles and piles of used romances and I read them and they make me sick but I can't stop. Because I know it's fake but I want it to be real. I want it so bad. I'm just like all of them, everyone else trying to make something real out of everything that's fake when it's impossible. And I don't even know anymore how to tell the difference."