This is my first try at a big story, and so I tried to do something that I myself was close to. I myself am emo, so flamers, don't say that I stereotype. This story is about the mind of the stereotypical emo kid, not someone who breaks the mold of 'emo' mk? Are you good with all that, Mr. Flamer? So yeah, please review, I want to know if I should continue this. In the future my ANs won't be so long, P

Title: I Am Emo Hear Me Roar

Chapter: 1

Summary: This is the mind of Cora, a physchotic emo kid, who is forced to keep a journal per thereapist's request. Soon she meets the football player Josh, can she shake her vendetta towards preps, or miss out on true love, all the while escaping new medications?

I am the girl that you make fun of. I am the creepy girl that people whisper rumors about. I am the satanic, cutting, bipolar depressed girl that you hate just because I don't flutter around with a miniskirt and a ponytail. I have the sure signs: baggy black shirt, tight black pants, dyed black hair cut into a chunky swing bob, black converse, black jelly bracelets. Tears. Scars.

I am the girl that sits in the back of the room, does her homework, then sits and stares blankly into space for forty minutes. I have dark thoughts about you, killing you in my mind because of that look you give me. Of pity and disgust. How could she not be like us, how could she be who she wants to be. Doesn't she know that guys will only love her if she has no resistance to their sexual needs, and that when she stands up for herself, it's like, a total turnoff? Why doesn't she have the newest issue of People magazine? Where's her Coach/Gucci purse? But you don't know that I'm thinking the thoughts that I am. That I'm imagining what your head is like. You think that I am just staring, just thinking enough thoughts to keep me alive. Breathe in, Breathe out. Blink. Adjust my foot so the blood doesn't get cut off.

You may have thought it, from time to time, but then you were distracted by what happened on Desperate Housewives or why Michael Nichols broke up with Emily Schwartz. I am the girl that you poke insults at without a care and treating me as just a mere bit of entertainment for a split second. I bet she's never been one day without grass since she was four. That girl thinks that every day is Halloween. I bet she's been wasted her whole life. Then you giggle at other's pain and suck in your gut then tell yourself out loud that you're fat, waiting for someone to assure you otherwise.

When you say that others classify you as a bimbo, maybe it's because you are. I don't like stereotypes myself, but when you live up to them, when you become the cookie-cutter girl that only feels unique when Daddy hands her a hundred dollars and says she's special, maybe you shouldn't whine. But it's okay for me. I'm not you. I am myself.

I am the girl that you hate.

I am the girl that you make fun of.

I am emo.

How'd you like that intro, Dr. Minora? Was that good for the first entry? Isn't it amazing how I can stretch such a complete thought into a short amount of text? Most people wouldn't think that I could've done it, they think I'm unworthy of thought. But that doesn't matter to me. At least I can write an intro.

My old English teacher said that the only thing that really matters in a piece of writing, the only thing that gets the reader's attention and to make it a masterpiece is the intro and the ending. In some cases the climax, but that doesn't apply here. My life is static, no changes, no climax. All I have is the beginning and the end, and I think that was a pretty good beginning, as opposed to my real one, the one that started this mess entitled The Life and Times of Me. My ending hasn't come yet, but I'm hoping that will be dramatic and thoughtful. Perhaps something that someone will remember. A car crash or an epic suicide.

You didn't think that I could start a journal, I'll bet. I can start them, sure, I just can't finish them. I get bored or forget that I was supposed to write in them every day or every week or however period of time my current therapist pulled out of a hat. Oh yes, Dr.Minora, This stupid write-your-thoughts-down-every-day-slash-every-week-in-this-black-and-white-composition-book idea isn't original. My last five therapists tried it, I'm just not interesting, and I wouldn't want to bore you to death. My mundane, sometimes idiotic inner thoughts are a bit too dark, too unpleasant for most people's tastes, and who honestly would, in their right mind, listen to the incessant rantings of a fifteen year old girl? What adult would want to spend their valuable time (when they could be smoking their only true love: nicotine) reading the complaints of this pitiful, meaningless girl.

Were you wondering why I repeat myself a lot, Dr.Minora? Is it because I'm possibly O.C.D.? No, Dr. Richards tried that one, my medicine he gave me didn't work, so I must've not been O.C.D, right? Do you really want to know? Or do you only care because my lovely (and I say that loosely) parents pay you five hundred dollars an hour? Honestly, the only reason that I repeat myself is to put emphasis into my writing. And the fact that when I get a thought it bounces around in my mind and until I write it twenty times it won't leave.

God, I hate my parents. Is that what you were hoping to hear? Were you hoping to hear something that every teenager has said at least twenty billion times before they're able to drive? Is what I said true?


Don't worry. I know you were hoping that your work was cut out for you there, Dr. Minora, but no. I don't have family issues. Why don't you just open that nice thick file of yours that you always have with you during our sessions, and read the notes the nice people in pantyhose have written about me. I see therapists as a plastic easy way to make money. Doze off for an hour, nod occasionally, adjust your makeup, and you'll make 1500+ a day. How awesome is that?

I don't plan to do that though, I plan to be an expert hobo. Or just a hoe. Not a prostitute, just someone that a cool rich rapper can drag around, possibly screw a few times, and then give me the good life with Jacuzzis and maids. I'd have to be racist though, get into a few bitch-fights and say the n-word. Is it okay for me to say the n-word here, because it's just a journal?

You should just know that I am not easy to classify. Labels are for soup cans, Dr. Minora. My only thing that got me to start this stupid therapy thing again was the threats my parents gave me. You'd better do this, you'd must act at least like you're better.

What is better, anyway? I'm content.

Doesn't get much better than content.

Disclaimer: I do own this beyotches.