Letter from An Idealistic Teenage Potato Chip, Age 15 (weeks)
You know what I don't understand? Like, everything. Why there is hate, why there is injustice, why there is racism. It feels like everyone is just being lazy and aren't taking the time to actually understand what they're hating and stuff. Like, everyone around here avoids that potato chip that's all crusty and brown, right? My mom and dad even told me never to go near him, but they've never told me why. Just that they don't like what they hear about him, and he gives off a funky smell if you're near. So ONE potato chip actually has an odor. That must mean he's evil. And that must also mean that all the Barbeque chips are stupid immigrants, and all the Cheddar chips are hicks, and all the Vinegar are homos, and all the Sour Cream And Onion chips are wealthy conservative assholes. God, it's so frustrating that chips are so close-minded like that.
It's like those stupid chips that believe we were all created on the same day by He Who Devours when it's so totally obvious that we evolved over time from potatoes. I mean, duh, right?
I'm not going to grow up to be like my mom and dad. They're big chips around here, that's for sure. Dad's always saying that he works like he does so I can have a better life (like I believe that for a second; my dad totally wishes he was a sour cream and onion). But I don't have a better life than anyone. In fact, I probably have a worse life. It feels like most of the time I'm walking alone in the shadows, like no one understands me. All the other chips are concerned about stupid things, like how big they are, how popular they can be, getting good grades, remaining well salted. It's all bullshit. Fucking bullshit. None of that matters. Because you know what happens? You do the same thing your parents did, you be lazy and stupid just like them, and look what happens. You get big and fat and The Hand comes along and eats you. The Hand always eats the biggest ones first.
I wish our art teacher here at school wasn't so useless. She has us inking tracings of seashells. It's so gay. Before that we were using chalk and pastels to draw pictures with shade, dimension, and texture. Some of those tricks were neat, I gotta admit, but I want to know when we're gonna get into some cool shit. I keep asking the teacher if we're going to study some modern artists or impressionists or protest art or something, but she gives me this dumb vacant cow look. It makes me wanna punch her in the face. She's always blaming me for weird things, too. Like she thinks I unplugged her computer or that I broke the kiln or tracked mud into the darkroom. She's a weirdo. And probably a lesbian.
The whole school is messed up. I submitted some of my poems, right, for this yearly magazine they put out, but they rejected it because they were "too dark". What's up with that? I'm just telling it like it is. It's DARK here at the bottom of the bag, at the bottom of the world, at the bottom of the chain where I am. No one respects any of us down here, all the adults higher up think they know better than us. I can't imagine any of them as teenagers. Except Mr. Winslow. He's awesome.
Oh, get this. I had to go to my guidance counselor the other day and fill out this career evaluation form. When I was done my counselor, who also counsels like a quarter of all the chips here so he's not really "my" counselor, said that the form said I would be best at supporting ranch n'onion dip and salsa. That I would give flavor to other chips surrounding me. That's such crap. How can a form know what I'm best at? You can't reduce a person to questions on a paper. A stupid test can't know what I think. I'm best at creating. I'm best at finding the things no one wants to talk about. Salsa. Whatever.
I'm not going to do what all the other chips do, marching along like mindless sheep. I explore, I create. I've got music in my collection that's tons better than what's on the radio, but they'll never hear it because they're all too dumb to seek things out. My destiny isn't theirs. I'm not going to let mediocrity defeat me. All the chips I see around me...they're gonna get fat, and big, and eaten.
But not me. The Hand will never catch me. I'm not like the other chips at all. I'm different.
It's like those stupid chips that believe we were all created on the same day by He Who Devours when it's so totally obvious that we evolved over time from potatoes. I mean, duh, right?
I'm not going to grow up to be like my mom and dad. They're big chips around here, that's for sure. Dad's always saying that he works like he does so I can have a better life (like I believe that for a second; my dad totally wishes he was a sour cream and onion). But I don't have a better life than anyone. In fact, I probably have a worse life. It feels like most of the time I'm walking alone in the shadows, like no one understands me. All the other chips are concerned about stupid things, like how big they are, how popular they can be, getting good grades, remaining well salted. It's all bullshit. Fucking bullshit. None of that matters. Because you know what happens? You do the same thing your parents did, you be lazy and stupid just like them, and look what happens. You get big and fat and The Hand comes along and eats you. The Hand always eats the biggest ones first.
I wish our art teacher here at school wasn't so useless. She has us inking tracings of seashells. It's so gay. Before that we were using chalk and pastels to draw pictures with shade, dimension, and texture. Some of those tricks were neat, I gotta admit, but I want to know when we're gonna get into some cool shit. I keep asking the teacher if we're going to study some modern artists or impressionists or protest art or something, but she gives me this dumb vacant cow look. It makes me wanna punch her in the face. She's always blaming me for weird things, too. Like she thinks I unplugged her computer or that I broke the kiln or tracked mud into the darkroom. She's a weirdo. And probably a lesbian.
The whole school is messed up. I submitted some of my poems, right, for this yearly magazine they put out, but they rejected it because they were "too dark". What's up with that? I'm just telling it like it is. It's DARK here at the bottom of the bag, at the bottom of the world, at the bottom of the chain where I am. No one respects any of us down here, all the adults higher up think they know better than us. I can't imagine any of them as teenagers. Except Mr. Winslow. He's awesome.
Oh, get this. I had to go to my guidance counselor the other day and fill out this career evaluation form. When I was done my counselor, who also counsels like a quarter of all the chips here so he's not really "my" counselor, said that the form said I would be best at supporting ranch n'onion dip and salsa. That I would give flavor to other chips surrounding me. That's such crap. How can a form know what I'm best at? You can't reduce a person to questions on a paper. A stupid test can't know what I think. I'm best at creating. I'm best at finding the things no one wants to talk about. Salsa. Whatever.
I'm not going to do what all the other chips do, marching along like mindless sheep. I explore, I create. I've got music in my collection that's tons better than what's on the radio, but they'll never hear it because they're all too dumb to seek things out. My destiny isn't theirs. I'm not going to let mediocrity defeat me. All the chips I see around me...they're gonna get fat, and big, and eaten.
But not me. The Hand will never catch me. I'm not like the other chips at all. I'm different.
posted by greenland at 1:40 PM
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