I'm already tired.
Everything I do… everything I've ever done… what does it all add up to? It's exhausting to even think about anything having meaning, or impact, but what's worse is the idea that it all makes no difference. There is a statistical probability that chasing a dream will have the same outcome as keeping it a fleeting fantasy to get you through your days, meaning you end up with nothing at the end of it all except for a bitter taste in your mouth. Maybe that's utter pessimism, or maybe it's an unbiased study based on hard facts of personal experience. Except, that doesn't really make it unbiased, but you can't blame me.
Take today, for example. I really wanted to make one improvement upon yesterday, and really that shouldn't have been too difficult. Once you hit rock bottom, the only way is up, right? With this attitude, I pulled into the parking lot, got out of my ridiculously inferior car (mine is officially gone beyond repair after what happened, so I have to deal with the replacement), and tried to let go of the wave of self-consciousness that errupted over me when I realized I was the sole sophomore walking into the building alone. The Cheerio uniforms all moved together in one synchronised, butt-shaking procession led by the three top dogs who, although I had been enrolled at McKinley not twenty four hours at that stage, I recognized as Quinn, Santana and Brittany. It was hard not to notice them, or hear them, or hear about them. The Letterman Jacket crew also clumped together, usually throwing some kind of ball or making some form of noise, and then there were always groups of girls near them. I couldn't tell if they were watching them, or waiting to be noticed by them, and I also didn't know why it was such a big deal to them to maybe go out with someone who wore one of those jackets. How does it set them apart from the rest of the student body, exactly? So you play organized sport, here's your social status and complimentary God complex in exchange for bringing the school the chance of positive publicity. This isn't new to me, obviously this went on in my last school as well. It goes on in, pretty much, every high school in the country. Why am I pissed off about it now?
Because they all belong, and I don't, and I'm having a severe case of jealousy issues. Perhaps it's not pure envy. I don't want for popularity or status, nor do I care for it. I just want to blend in. Be comfortable. Pushing my way through crowds of students, clutching my books and squinting my eyes shut to try and block out my surroundings as I try to reach my locker, isn't my definition of comfort. If I had a talent or aptitude for sports, maybe I could have gone to tryouts that week, but I knew it was no use. Thinking about Glee club, and performance, well that would be ideal, but I know my parents would never approve. Everyone knows they're the outcasts here, and I wouldn't be doing myself any favours. I did love it, though…
That was when I'd had the idea. I turned right on my heel, and made my way to where I remembered seeing the notice board. Of course, it wasn't hard to find again - it was the hallway that was largely taken up by girls in last years Cheerio outfits, signing up for another chance at being in the spotlight. The spotlight. Cheerios weren't just girls, right? I was sure I'd seen two or three boys clad in the red and white get up. Cheerleaders were popular, they always had a place, and that was it. That was my mind made up. That was the name Blaine Anderson signed under that of Perry LeFaye (that couldn't be real). I was going to try out for the Cheerios.
Looking back I'm pretty sure it was the worst mistake I've ever made. I sat in class - on my own - the whole day, thinking about my routine. I'd done gymnastics and various styles of dance growing up, so I should be okay. Maybe not as prepared as everyone else, but… who was I kidding? They weren't going to pick me? I was new for crying out loud, last time I checked I wasn't a size two female with a great rack and ass to boot, and I didn't have any sort of reputation, which was kind of a blessing at this stage. Was I really going to ruin it with making a fool out of myself in front of the most powerful girl in my year group? "You may have lost yourself, Blaine," I'd said to myself. "But you haven't lost your courage."
Let me tell you now, self pep talks are never a good idea. First, you get reprimanded for mumbling during math class, and second, you end up spending your lunch time in a line of about three thousand billion girls outside the gym, waiting to be judged in a ten second window of time. It was a step up from the bathroom cubicle, in a way, but not as warm. Being the only boy, I wasn't exactly invisible, either. Luckily, while male auditionees were uncommon, they didn't seem to be completely unheard of, so questioning looks were as worse as it got. Until I got inside.
I didn't know what to expect of Sue Sylvester, until I saw her, dressed in a tracksuit, looking more and more pissed off as each potential Cheerio walked on and off stage. Well, it wasn't a stage as much as an "area of the ground lit up and hereby christened torture-spot". She spoke largely in a language of insults, calling upon people by impromptu nicknames based on her terrible first impressions of them. I didn't know what to expect, so when she sighed and yelled "HOBBIT!" into her megaphone, it took me a second to realise I was next.
"Blaine Anderson, ma'am -"
"Show us what you got, Hobbit, or shoo, 'cause I gots a nail appointment in five," Santana Lopez, who was sitting to the left of Sue, looked up from her vanity mirror and smirked at him. "Well?"
The music started, a beat I was unfamiliar with, and I shuffled my feet uncomfortably. I cant quite recall what happened after that. A few black flips, some stretches, the splits, and somewhere in between all that, I landed right on my backside. A whistle blew, and I knew better than to even look at the panel as my potentially fractured tailbone and I shuffled out the side exit of the gym.
Anyway, now I'm sitting in my room, avoiding Calculus homework and nursing said injury. I think it was my pride I hurt more than anything. The best I can do is hope they don't recognise me (as I don't tend to fall every time I move from A to B), remember me only by the name "Hobbit", and this doesn't start off any gay rumours. I left out this story at my recount of my day at the dinner table tonight, needless to say. What my father doesn't know wont hurt him. The things I do for my love of performing. He should be proud of my passion. I know he's only trying to protect me, because he cares about me. It's not fair to jeopradise that. Plus, he did help me get a job at some coffee shop, the Lima Bean, starting tomorrow. Maybe my very own Prince Charming will park up his white horse outside, stop for a latte, be smitten by my less than average height and eyebrows, and take me away to a magical kingdom, far far away.
I'm liking this writing thing a bit more now, but just so you know - locking embarrassing moments away in a diary do not stop them from being embarrassing.