What's New Pussy Cat?

I don't know if I can handle these A.D.D. drifting trips anymore. I just caught myself staring off into space, on the third verse of What's New Pussy Cat? Junior Year is nearing a much needed, and well deserved end. This year was academic hell for me. "I simply can't focus on anything." Really, TV,? I look up for one second and you are playing a graphic animal cruelty commercial, thanks for that. I'm no advocate of violence, but I wouldn't mind torturing those heartless, animal killing hicks. First, You can watch as I shove everyone you love in a carbon monoxide box to be slowly killed. Then, you can be shoved in a cage for a few months, breathless, with all of your coon-ass friends to bask in your own feces. Then, I'll beatcha, skinya, and into the monoxide gas chamber you go. See, this is why I hate those random animal cruelty commercials that pop up on your screen as your eyes drift, strategically at the point of utter sadness in the eyes on a mentally and physically scarred dog. Drifting... It's my new thing, or my old thing that just so happens to be occuring frequently in the passing weeks. I keep wondering why they inexplicably stopped writing for the character of Mr. Turner in Boy Meets World, after he got in a motorcycle accident. I keep wondering where Eric from the show has been. I always wonder about actors that I haven't seen in a long while. I wonder if they have decided to live a more normal, boring lifestyle, or if they are struggling to find roles, or if they fell off the straight and narrow path. What's sick is that I feel more toward man-made characters than about many of the real people who surround me everyday. I live in a fantasy world, ignorance toward reality is my mentality. I try to get organized, but it all blows up in my face once my meds wear off. I am sixteen (and some change), and I'm already an old maid. I'm frightened. I have an ultimate fear of the unknown. The one thing I'm certain of is that I WILL NOT, I CANNOT allow myself to wilt away and die before I have a star with my name on it on the hollywood walk of fame. If 20 years after my death, I remain unwritten, unread, and out of the pages of your sons and daughters history books, I will continue on as the most inadequate, self-loathing ghost to ever haunt this earth, and disappear in the in-between.