(Lucy Caboosey, Can't Dance, Can't Sing, No Weave, I'm With Stupid, Four Eyes, Nose, Brown Eyes, Trouty Mouth, Bad Attitude.

Likes Boys.)

Everyone has that one thing they'd love to shove aside; everyone wants to avoid that one part inside of them that makes them intrincate, unique, perfect; that part that makes them rotten, spoiled goods. Everyone is fed up, tired, convinced that giving up and giving in are the best two options to go on with life.

People know shit. Because you avoid, and you shove, you tear yourself apart over one word, and then you build castles in the air. After that, everything crumbles. Castles, towers, drawbridges. Everything. Because you may try, but there's only so much you can do with only will on your side.

People know shit, they know shit, and they do even worse than that. They push, they struggle, they laugh at one another's fights, because damn that's way easier than acknowledging that they've got demons of their own. Demons of their own that spit and bleed all over delicate hearts.

Everyone strives to change for their betterment. To fit. They want to fit. To fit, to be part of something bigger, prettier, something that gives life a meaning (because at the end of it nothing matters that much, you die either ways and that's it, no big lesson, no big anything). They just don't realize that their trying to be prettier, fancier, better, well adjusted only breaks them down.

Society is sick. Sick and full of double standards: it's okay to be who you are/ you've gotta change those things that you don't like about yourself, or people won't like you.

Do this. Don't do it.

Be this. Be something else.

He wants to be who he is, but he just wants that to be someone else, something else. Something easier.

He takes Santana's hand when the glee club's done with their 'acceptance' number and stands up. She locks eyes with him, and time slows down. She's on the verge of tears, and that says much. Because if Lopez can't hold her shit together, then everyone else is doomed.

(...There's gotta be a way. There's gotta be something bigger, better, prettier, full of love and things truer than what they are sold. There must be something everyone can be a part of, right?)

He squeezes her hand, she squeezes back. Hard. Then she throws a weak leer at him and tells him to stop drooling over Hummel.

"Well, you stop eye-raping Bimbo, bitch." He barks at her, and she offers a watery smile.

They leave, and nobody even notices that they'd been there in the first place.

(Her shirt says lebanese, but he gets the meaning underneath.

When he gets a little sick of trying to stop thinking about the way Kurt's hair kept sticking everywhere, like some cool animal's wild mane, he can't really deceive himself anymore.

His white shirt would say Likes Boys,Ttoo.)