code georgia suwanee zip

Irsquo;m feeling my agehellip;.

Itrsquo;s a simple fraise usually referring to arthritis and sore knees of anyone who saw the great depression but now me.�I feel my age in the exact terrifying way my grandma can feel her back.�Irsquo;m 16, no matter what everyone seems to assume, and Irsquo;m a teen.�Reason is slowly slipping away into sheer emotionalism.�Where are my excuses for the feelings I dislike? I see a good looking guy, I like him, I act like a freaking idiotmdash;last year I saw a good looking fellow and I say to myself, ldquo;well stupid this is why you donrsquo;t like him _______________rdquo; and then I didnrsquo;thellip;.�But now at last Irsquo;m lost staring at my very large feet. �Loathing the sound of my voice and much more loathing of what English I manage to speak

I have the most insane urge to rebel.�In a terrifying frenzy as a vampire to blood want to grab a pack of cool-aid and die my hair blue/red/green of anything for the heck of it.�Itrsquo;ll look stupid for a week-and-a-half but I canrsquo;t find a reason why I would care. I want to grab a sewing pin dip it in alcohol and plunge it into the lower half of my ear.�Not in the creepy, cutter, pain loving kind of way but in the simple rash impulse of piercing my own ear. �I can hear my own thoughts and it freaks me out ldquo;blue hair we want blue hair today? What are you thinkinghellip;.rdquo; But then I think more and more about it ldquo;It would be cool looking and with hallowing I would have a chance tohellip;rdquo; I then realize Irsquo;ve just talked myself back into something I now wanthellip;confused?

These thoughts run rampant through my head buzzing like the static of a radio. Irsquo;m left clutching my head with ldquo;what the heck is going on?rdquo;�ldquo;Wherersquo;s my reason, where did I put the even keel?rdquo; I hate the very realistic outcome of such thinking in that I will most certainly be grounded this year for some of these suggested behaviors but stile yearn of the rebellion inside me.�I want to break free of this strange inability to scream and dance around like a loony if I felt like it (I often havehellip;).�There has to be something to this weird need to do something that doesnrsquo;t bother anyone but your own butt for the heck of it.�Canrsquo;t I do something childish and strange simply because or can I?

Somewhere in this chaos there is the plan of God rooting itself deeper in me now than evermdash;may be not in the intimate father daughter talks of before, but in the lion roaring in my guts and burning in my veins.�I see the P.O.W.rsquo;s of my enemyrsquo;s camp as if from a hill side with the commander next to me and see all the fights I have to face and Irsquo;m ready to start.�I see injustice and Irsquo;m ready to fly at any open door.�In my rebellion there is order.�In my searching there is a mission; free the captives.�Like John Westly (I think) once said, ldquo;set yourself on fire and let everyone watch you burnrdquo;

My bones are aching not yet in the agony of their disappearance but the stretch of new growth.�Irsquo;m foot loose on a foot long chainmdash;a rebel with a cause but without a picket signmdash;a poet without a piece of paper and I wonrsquo;t make it much longer

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