Three Expectations In Kurt Vonnegut's Breakfast Of Champions

When I was in upper elementary school, I read Kurt Vonnegut novels. My favorite was Breakfast of Champions. In it, a failure of a science-fiction author named Kilgore Trout with only three fans in the known universe was said to have written a story: Now It Can Be Told. In it, not a single person but one human had free will; everyone else was an unthinking machine.

Now, I sit on the bus, next to an obnoxious seventh-grader who wouldn’t stop talking about his friend from an old school who does rather disturbing actions.

I just got out of gym, and I smell of sweat and B.O., despite both of them being almost the same. Fifteen times today someone has either pointed out my scars on my back and legs and the scabs on my face. Three occurrences
were when they picked fun at my weight, calling me lard-- and chubby. Others of course were unspeakable things.

The reason I don’t talk is because of the BPD and insomnia that I already have to worry about. I’ve been thinking about it. You know, it. I joke about it at times but inside I really do consider doing it. The people around me know me as a joking, sarcastic, apathetic, and strong creative being. But to be honest, this is the complete opposite of who I am. The real Elena Elizabeth Phillips isn’t healthy and kind, she isn’t happy or even borderline joyful.

I struggle. I’m anxious and not smart. Things I do aren’t original or ‘creative’, nonetheless inspiring, and somehow I’m a role model.