wardrobe rules: why does it even matter?

if you, the reader, has ever wondered, what does this franki17kaye91 look like? well, i guess i look a bit like i sound in my writing. i've been told that i have only three emotions: surly, stoic, and the recently-added hystarical with giggles and snorts (more on that bit in future rants...). i hit my growing peak in fifth grade, plateauing at a solid 5' .5''. i'm a tad pale, with curly, pouffy brown hair, green eyes, and a smatter of freckles. i'm just a tad overweight (which, in this conformity-obsessed world of conventional beauty, what girl isn't, except the anorexics and bullimics?) with a bum that's not so much like a "back porch swing" and more like a "mad wrecking ball with a vendetta against the whole of humanity, no reguard for any and all who get in the way."

i'm pretty plain, if you wanna know the truth.

but my natural looks aren't the important part here. it's my wardrobe.

everyone i know is well-aquainted with my obsession with bandanas, black lipstick, and bright-flipperin'-green combat boots. everything else in between is too odd and extensive to fit into any category. it's sort of punk-goth-hippie-checkerhead-countrygirl-urbanchick-coorperatfiend-comfortslob-bikerdenim-trekkiegeek with a splash of human thrown in there.

they come mostly from second-hand stores, and passed down from older family memebers, or discovered in the bottom of some box in the basement, and, maybe once or twice a year, i actually get the money to shop at a first-hand store (too poor for even wal-mart... that's kinda sad...). i make do with what i got, i mix, match, alter, and, sometimes, completely distory, which actually fixes them half the time. some of the outfits i got going could even rival those of Lady Ga-Ga.

but, getting to the point of my document, while most people don't know what they're gonna be getting from me, i have my own goon squad to take me down and shove a ticket down my throat for allowing myself to walk the high school halls in my outlandish garb.

why should it matter what i wear? black lipstick is no different from red or pink lipstick. black is just a color. fishnets don't make me a hooker, nor do they make me a lesbien-pirate, or whatever else. bandanas are not hats. hats can be easily taken off, and offered to others, for which lice-alert the reason they're not allowed in schools. no one actually takes off a bandana -- they use them to cover things up -- like my pouffy curls that do nothing but fuzz if i so much as say the word "moisture." and, really, a few spikes never hurt anybody. well... okay, i'm sure a few have, but that's beside the point.

my family is afraid -- have always been afraid, since i started dressing this way at seven -- that my outfits will get me teased and put down. well, they do. but, as a non-conformist, that's a high compliment. an even higher compliment when i take a risk, and the human gentry offer actual compliments.

no one seems to understand my risk-taking, so they try to limit it, thereby stiffling my creative genius (yes. genius.), which turns me into a ceesy action-movie supervillian, spurned by the world, and bent on distruction of all who doubted me! mwahahahahahahahahaha! snort.

it should'nt matter. and, quite frankly, it doesn't. no matter the limits put on my creativity, i always find a loophole, and i grow, despite the pressure to stay under certain thumbs. i'm going to surpass my original programing, and they will all remain the pathetic little conformists they've taught themselves to be.

i win.