I keep watching this movie over and over again. It's not my favorite movie, but it's the only one that my dad lets me have. I've seen clips of other movies in the commercials, but we only have the kind of tv that's in black and white, and sometimes it fuzzes up if the antenna on it isn't right.

I sometimes wonder if I've seen the scenes more than the actors had to take them. They probably didn't take too many times to look over the script. All the characters are just stereotypes of themselves. The blonde girl is the punchline of everything she says, saying something stupid every couple of seconds. The main character is a strong white man with short hair who constantly impresses his love interest. His love interest "plays hard to get" until the very end. She has dark hair and pale skin. The sidekick has no particular love interest, and is very clumsy in contrast to the main character. There's a token black man, who has an urban accent and is the comedy of the movie. I wonder why none of the actors never tried to tell people they weren't like this. Fitting roles just to make money I guess. I know everyone but the main character was thinking this was demoralizing. I wonder what the main character was thinking.

I like to draw the characters when I watch. I try to make my own comics, of people who aren't the same thing everyone has seen, but they always end up looking too much like the characters in the movie. It's always too dark in our house for me to see myself, and dad usually doesn't come down to talk to me. Someday when I'm much older I'm going to go out and watch another movie, that's what I hope.

I have a feeling those characters will look the same too though.

Jamie woke up one morning under the face of a man in his twenties who wore a blue gown and a mask, his clothes covered in blood. He had plastic gloves on, which were even more bloodied than his clothes. Jamie found himself looking over to his mother, who had long blonde hair. She had a very calm, gentle smile that held behind it the burden of being a parent, and the stress that would probably wear down on her tomorrow, but for now she wanted to look calm in front of her son. She looked exhausted, especially considering she still had to work two jobs. The wages were low where she lived and she was always worried about supporting a child here.

Next Jamie saw his father looking down, with thick gray hair that had long stripes of white and brown as if his head was once lit up with fire but now all that remained were scars and ashes. He had a scratchy beard that wrapped around his whole face the way those muscular men in ads aimed at other men have it, and his eyes were glowing red from the morning sun that peeked through the window. He looked big and scary, and somehow distant. He didn't get up to hug Jamie.

Words were spoken by the doctor, but Jamie couldn't understand them. They seemed muffled and choked. His parents responded lightly and softly in the same way, and then Jamie was taken out of the room. He couldn't remember anything, why he was there in the hospital or even what a hospital was. It all felt so unfamiliar to him. Why was the man taking him away so stressed?

Lights passed by overhead, and Jamie watched the pretty colors fall by. He saw red and blue and green, and the occasional nurses passing by in their uniforms. Everyone seemed so very stressed, and he knew his parents would be the same way while he was gone. The doctor looked down and saw Jamie looking around in a curious manner, and smiled down at him caringly. It was almost soothing. But he wouldn't be distracted, Jamie had to know why he was there. He thought about it for a long time.

Something flashed in his head. He felt his breath slow down as he tried to remember whatever thought had just passed him. He heard the doctor above him start rushing somewhere as he looked down at Jamie, his face changing into a look of concern. The doctor started shouting out what seemed like random syllables, and as Jamie started to piece together the words he realized he had forgotten something very important he needed to do, but it didn't matter as long as he could figure out what the doctor was saying to the nurse who had just stopped by to help.

"...Patient...not...accident..." was all he could catch at the moment. The doctor started running, bringing Jamie along in front of him. Jamie could feel some sort of constricting pain on his stomach, tightening up and emptying, like he was about to vomit but had forgotten how. Hadn't he forgotten something...

"...Not breathing... He has severe memory loss... You need to get..." Memory loss... Jamie looked down at his hands. His scarred, tanned, aging hands. No, this wasn't right. Jamie was just born. This didn't make sense. How could Jamie have just woken up with no memories and be just about to die?

"Get the sheets... Just in case... I'm not gonna let this one die on me yet... Can't let anyone else..." So I’m just a number to you? Jamie tried to say, but he couldn't speak. His throat was too dry. In fact, it didn't seem as if he'd remembered to breathe. It didn't seem that he knew how.

This is the point, he thought, when characters in a movie would look back upon their life. Jamie had three minutes to look back upon. He saw things start to get a little fuzzy and tried to remember how old he was, or what his last name was, or anything at all that he could cling to before he died. But all his efforts were worthless. His hands looked like those of a 40 year old, but that could have just been a rough childhood. And it makes sense now, that he could remember so much about that woman from the other room just by looking at her. She had blonde hair... Was it blonde or was it brown? How strange... He felt his body start to tremble for some reason... What a pitiful death for a pitiful three minute old man, who had his entire life stolen by himself.

I take my daily dose each morning, with a little bit extra to keep from screaming in the middle of work.

I love driving. It makes me feel more relaxed each morning. The road is almost always clear in Oklahoma, and everything ahead belongs to me. Isolation has always been the greatest comfort of the day.

It takes a lot of effort to pull into the driveway, and it's most certainly not because of the horror of parallel parking. I've never quite understood the portrayal of parallel parking in media, with the constant jokes about how difficult it is.

Painting isn't difficult, but before every job I have to have that horrifying interaction with the client. They're always so repetitive. There are the kinds of people who say "surprise me" and are always dissatisfied with what they get but won't build up the guts to say it. Then there are the people who have some sort of idea they want to convey. This morning it was "when my dreams try to tell me something that I know is wrong." So I drew a picture of a dark haired girl drowning in the water at sunset, and another girl that looked nearly the same standing on a wave with bare feet and a long white dress, pointing one way, but her reflection pointing the other. The client was the only one disgusted, and of course he grumbled a little, but everyone else was amazed. People tend to be strange like that.

While I was driving home I saw a small spot on a fence where stuffed animals were being left. I stopped by and saw the "in memory of Kate" note that lay on the ground in the shape of a heart, the note I had seen so many times before. I didn't know her, and I don't know why I knelt down and prayed again. I'm agnostic so it doesn't really make sense. I guess the habit was built into me from Christian parents, or maybe it's because I went to Catholic school. I've never believed there was an afterlife, because if there was it would make this life completely worthless. Keep everyone dead and they can end their lives knowing that they completely enjoyed it. Make everyone immortal and they fade into boredom, until they wish death was possible, until they go insane. So what am I praying to? I know that after someone dies, there's no reason to feel remorse. Regret has never made sense. Everything is guaranteed to happen from the moment the universe was created, and there was nothing we could do about it.

And yet why am I praying? I keep asking myself that as I get back into the car and drive home.

In the middle of the city is a beautiful, stone-carved mansion

With a swimming pool in the backyard that must have never been touched

Crystal clear windows showing to all the neighbors

An array of knives, chains, and nice porcelain dolls

Meant for a birthday gift to the youngest daughter of the family

Who was locked downstairs in the basement for most of the time

Screaming, for all the neighbors to hear and none of the neighbors to care

Certainly it's their business how they raise their child

The world says as the word "mistake" is carved in the girl's back

They most certainly hear the thrusts in time with the girl's cries

And a man gasping through an open window for all to hear

But no one in their right mind calls the police

No one in their right mind is in the city

No one in their right mind is alive

The doctor said I'm half blind this morning. I expected some bad results, that of course is why I scheduled the appointment. I haven't been able to read for a while. He said my eyesight is progressively getting worse, that I would be blind in nine months at this pace.

I walked to school from the optomologist with my headphones on, and I said nothing when I got to class. I looked up braille in third period and poked holes in my notebook paper to practice in the back of class. To think that I could read in so many languages but right now all of them look like the Voynich Manuscript to me, it would be insane.

During lunch, I scrawled through one notebook after another writing all of my stories and ideas down, as fast as I could. I wrote clearly, I could tell by looking at the neat gray lines of fuzz on the paper, but I couldn't read them at all. I took out music sheets and started decorating them with notes until it seemed impossible to play, thinking of all of the hardest pieces I could. For whatever reason, the music was clearer in my eyes than anything else around me.

I went to the school's theater after school, and looked around with my eyes wide open. The room looked torn apart and rustic, like it fell out of a history textbook. The walls were gray and run down with water, with a grand piano shining under the dust from the hood of the stage. Red curtains hung down on either side with clear age to them, held open by golden ribbons tied up in the rafters. I wanted to draw the picture so badly, so desperately, before I would lose the ability to look at my drawings, before I would create art but never know what I've created, so desperately. I'm fifteen and I'll be blind next year.

I shuffled to the piano and sat down, trying to play one of my own pieces. This piano hadn't been tuned in such a long time, and though I was hitting all of the correct keys, they wouldn't sound or would be too flat or make muddled hums, or be damaged by some sticky orange sandpaper that I had no idea what the purpose was. So I put my headphones back on and played Chopin's Op 64 No 2 in time with the tutorial. And in the music I could the sight of blood trickling down my arms, around my fingers and dripping from my fingertips and sinking into between the keys. And I heard the sight of blood dripping from my eyes, down my soft, portrait built face, falling onto the base of my neck and down my chest. And when the song ended, I switched to Balakirev Islamey, and I heard the wonderful image of thousands of sheets of glass falling to the ground, each one with their own particular glare and their individual distortion of the light that came before it, the distortion that came before it. And as they all fall to the ground, they all shatter into smithereens and little freckles of glass speckle the air with the glowing of sunlight. I hear the sight of my psychotic mind, I hear what it sounds like to be insane, and to be so completely sane at the same time. And the song ends, and I hear Chopin's Etude Op 25 No 11 in my ears. I hear myself falling into the abyss, into the Hell that Dante pictured so many hundreds of years ago, and demons grabbing onto my body and pulling me lower until I'm shrouded in darkness, and I'm stuck in this eternity of torment, where I can no longer draw the beautiful pictures that I have for so many years, or write the same words that I used to, and I'm meaningless besides the music that slides from my fingertips onto this piano, burdening me with the constant bombardment of images in my mind, images that I can hardly bear because I'll only be able to remember and never be able to truly know again. I'll have sights in my head to haunt me, remind me what I used to be see and what truly gave life to me. I remembered the Portrait of Dorian Gray, how somehow everything that kept him alive in any way was slipping away like water through his fingers, through my fingers.

I walked away from the piano with my eyes closed.

The saddest thing to see

Every day at the stop by the fence

On the edge of the sidewalk

Surrounded by roses and teddy bears

Notes of condolences and pity

In a small auburn frame

Shadowed in summer sunsets

And smoke from the grill

With no one to mourn

But everyone to turn their heads

And pretend they care

Glass keeping my fingers

Millimeters from the picture

"This is what will happen

If we keep drinking and driving,

If we let guns get in the wrong hands,

If police brutality continues"

My brother in the frame

But it could be anyone

They made his corpse faceless

And carved in a symbol

For something they cared about

But he definitely didn't

Your feet are big,

and I'd expect you to be stepping on mine

While we're dancing,

but somehow you're perfectly in line

Not looking down,

Keeping your eyes on my eyes all the time

I'd love to look

But I've got to watch my steps

I've got to keep

The three four time we've kept

My bleeding feet

have never overslept

As a 15 year old kid, I probably have the most to benefit from what Bernie believes in.

When I was 14, I was fed up with how my parents abused my brother and I. I was molested, and I ate less than once a day. I got emancipated, which in case you don't know means legally earning the same rights that someone of age has in most situations. With a couple of other legal actions, I took my brother with me.

Now this is relative to Bernie Sanders, because if the actions he wanted to take were taken a year ago, I wouldn't be complaining. The problem is that 14 year olds have a different minimum wage than adults. For the first three months of work, I was paid $3.50 an hour, and 14 year olds are only allowed a 23 hour work week. That's half of the rent of my apartment per month. I worked for six months so I knew I could afford food and rent. When I wasn't working or going to school, I was on the street playing keyboard or guitar for tips.

Now, I really wanted to be able to afford college for my brother and I, because I want to be a politician. I also want my brother to be able to do whatever he wants when he grows up. I'm a big believer in college education. Unfortunately, if anyone besides Bernie is elected, even if I get $80000 in scholarships, I won't be able to afford my own college education. Instead I would save up all my money to put my brother through college. And to all the people who wonder how I can afford a laptop, or a phone, I needed them for my job and for school. I had to sacrifice eating for these.

I don't want college tuition and minimum wage to be the only reasons I want Bernie Sanders to win. I'm bisexual, and one of my best friends is transgender. He's constantly abused by his mom because he's transgender, to the point where he's psychologically damaged. We live in a relatively accepting state, which is lucky. Something I really get worried about is all the other people who have come out. My plan is to help those people in the middle east and in east africa who can't come out. And since I'm not old enough to vote in the U.S., and people here typically won't be murdered for their sexual identity, I couldn't care less about this country. But to everyone who lives here and isn't insane enough to go somewhere where they will most likely be murdered, gay marriage shouldn't be where you stop. Gay marriage should be the point when you realize that people are doing something about discrimination and you could at least be supporting them.

As a side note about homophobia, most of the people against gay rights are conservative Christians. I don't understand why someone would be against gay rights if it prevents abortions and doesn't risk the life of the mother. When I found out about gay pride rallies, I figured most of them would be conservative Christians. I've heard a few reasons why I shouldn't be gay and why it's a disease, and the one that stuck with me was "gay people only want sexual pleasure while normal people reproduce." That would make a lot of sense if the world wasn't overpopulated right now, first off. If we forget about equality, gay rights all over the world would make world hunger and poverty much easier to deal with. Plus, straight couples have sex for pleasure too, only with them it's more dangerous because they could end up having a baby. Straight couples could create a child and ruin their own lives and take away their companion's legal freedom. Maybe the Bible was against homosexuality, but it was written in a time when reproduction was necessary from every couple that could reproduce so the species could continue. I get why bisexual people would be hated according to Christianity, because they're either meant for a guy or a girl and God wouldn't give us extra choices just to end up with a soulmate of one gender. And to that, I'd like to point out that people are supposed to learn from their previous relationships, because in Christianity "it's all part of God's plan." Maybe I'm supposed to learn from someone who's a girl and end up with a guy. And as far as the problem with transgender, the difference between being a man and a woman besides the parts is that a guy can have a child that's biologically his without carrying it for nine months, while a girl has the opportunity to spend nine months with the child. Being transgender isn't sexist, as long as the reason isn't because of societal treatment. As far as this relates to Bernie Sanders, he's someone who stands up for LGBT rights to not be murdered, so... If you could kindly support him so I can live, that'd be nice.

And as far as the supporters of Hillary Clinton go, I don't want to be offensive so I'll keep this point short. Hillary Clinton has changed positions on many issues. Bernie Sanders stood up for civil rights a long time ago while Hillary Clinton was the cause of discrimination at points. I'm all for giving someone a second chance, but Bernie Sanders lasted more than 30 years doing everything right and he's still on his first chance, while Hillary Clinton should be on her fifth or sixth chance by now. Sanders supported gay marriage and civil rights since he started being involved in politics, while Hillary Clinton only switched up after already doing damage to both gay and civil rights. And she may regret her decision on Iraq, but regretting it only means she has good morals. It doesn't mean she has good foresight. She wants to raise the minimum wage to $12 while Bernie wants $15. Maybe $15 is a dangerous number considering the recession and unemployment rates and national debt, but I would like to propose this idea for any future politicians to use: make a law that says any companies based in other countries that import to our country need to have 2.7% of their manufacturing (measured by employees) held in this country. Since the U.S.A. has a large middle class consumer group that other countries can't provide, denying U.S.A. customers would sacrifice a lot of money for most international businesses, which means companies would have to accept the deal. This solves national debt by fixing the import-export ratio, unemployment rates go down because of the number of jobs offered in the country, and gets the economy flowing to the point that most American businesses could afford $15 an hour wages for employees. As long as whoever uses this idea names it after me so I can be president when I grow up.