Am I an abnormal teenager because I don’t understand the physics of fashion? Am I laugh-worthy because I don’t have shoes that look like I am about to become an astronaut, and I don’t wear makeup that makes me look like Cleopatra’s great-great-great-great-great granddaughter? Do I look like an intruder from Mars because I enjoy musing over the ‘70s, and I actually don’t throw rocks at my mom for being my mom?

If you stuck up descendants of an Egyptian queen that had no sense of style responded with another “Duh!” to all of these seemingly pointless questions, you might be right. I may wear my hair loose instead of coating every inch of it with a whipped-cream like substance. Why would I want a rigid and stiff hairball stuck to the top of my head that probably weighs more than I do? I may not buy clothes from a store that charges fifty bucks for ripped jeans. Isn’t it the same thing if I wore my grandfather’s old saggy suspender pants? Well, I’d rather. I may not paint my face every morning and have a spasm over my non-water-proof mascara dripping down my face because of the rain. You guys look like modernized, manicured versions of Bo Peep. I may listen to classics like Abba or M.J. instead of listening to bands that look like they just woke up and decided to cut their own hair. I may prefer watching the night sky shining with a billion gazillion stars, instead of watching ugly actors do the exact same thing in pixels. Sure, I may eat more than one peach a week, along with a lettuce leaf. I’m not really looking forward to becoming an anorexic patient, thank you very much. Nor do I find any excitement in forcing a finger down my throat and feeling the warmth of my breakfast come back up my oesophagus.

If you ask me, I like myself the way I am, however cheesy that sounds.
You laugh because I’m different.
I laugh because you’re all the same.