dylan o’brien + i love you.
These dudes are fucking legit. They don’t just show up one day in court, either, they actually make friends with the kids and let them know they have a support system and that there are people in the world who care about them and will always have their back. And less important, but also cool, is that the few times a couple of them have come into my cafe, they’ve been super friendly and polite and when I told one of the guys that I noticed his Bikers Against Child Abuse patch and wanted him to know how awesome I thought he was because of it, he got kind of shy and blushed and said, “The kids are the awesome ones, we just let them know they’re allowed to be brave.”
I made this in eighth grade to torment my history teacher. He was racist, sexist, generally bigoted, verbally abusive, and vaguely pedophilic. For an entire school year, he was my arch-nemesis and I was his. Ooooh, he hated me! It was notorious how obvious his loathing for me was, and I did nothing but encourage it.
I would have given him a fair chance, but in the first week of school he declared that the Muslim Agenda is to conquer America, enslave women, cut off our heads, and slice our Christian throats. Those words exactly, to a room full of 12-13 year-olds. I asked him right then and there if he had any unbiased sources for that information excluding Rush Limbaug or Fox News. He glared at me, the seeds of hate taking root, and I knew that it would be a long year.
Classes were bad enough. Being singled out and asked to explain my stance on abortion for the whole class to hear, then interrogated about my moral values and subjugated to the most twisted excuse for ‘logic’ I’ve ever heard to prove that I was dangerously antisocial in my views. Assigned the position of defense attorney during mock trials in what was a textbook example of a Joker Jury (I won! I won fair and square and the only reason my defendant was found guilty was because he was stringy and stupid and everyone’s favorite victim) and THEN informing the class that the outcome of a trial is always dependent on the quality of the defense attorney. One day, without warning, he came to my desk and dropped a dictionary on my homework, told me to stand up, find the definition of ‘marriage’, and read it aloud for the whole class to hear. I knew what his game was so I pointed out that the edition was released in 1989 and so was obsolete because it was published before legalization of same-sex marriage and was biased. He made me read it anyway, then asked me why I was thinking about homosexuals if he never brought it up, obviously trying to make me out myself as a lesbian.
Yeah, fuck you, too, Smith. Outside of class he was even worse — if he caught me alone, he’d loom over me, try to stall me and make me late to other classes, and told me flat-out that I was a disrespectful and audacious little girl with a mind closed to learning. He was friends with my Health teacher and conspired with him to humiliate me — invariably, I was called upon to be weighed in front of the class and told that I was “fat on the inside” even though I looked scrawny. Yes, seriously. We reported Mr. Smith’s behavior to the administration and superintendent. They ignored us. My mother was told that nothing would be done about it because I had “a history of noncooperation” with teachers and staff, nevermind the fact that all of my other teachers considered me among their best students ever.
Aaaaanyway. I got back at him through my own small, infuriating rebellion. Laughing at him during solemn moments. Sitting and reading through the Pledge of Allegiance each morning. Dropping the ‘mister’ from his name when I addressed him. Arriving early in class and doing my homework in the three minutes before the bell rang — and getting full marks. Drawing transvestites and Muslims in the margins of my papers. When he announced that he shared a spiritual bond with Abraham Lincoln because he shared a birthday with him, I said, “Wow, good thing you weren’t born on April 20th” and asked if he shared the same bond with Charles Darwin. I brought in a stack of pamphlets (supplied by my mother) of common misconceptions about Islam and left them around the room. I’d stare at him intently and make weird faces at him while he taught so that he’d suddenly forget what he was saying because he was so flustered.
What does any of this have to do with Lincoln in a patriotic g-string? Well, having a ‘spiritual connection’ with someone apparently means completely covering the walls of your classroom with images of their face. There were blown-up portraits the size of beds on every wall. Lincoln masks hung from the ceiling. A cardboard cutout of Lincoln stood near the door. Images of Lincoln were everywhere — thousands of beady Lincoln eyes glowering from every surface. It was unnerving. His passion for Lincoln was clearly erotic, made more disturbing by his vocal hatred of homosexuals. On Lincoln’s death-day, he stood in the middle of the room with his eyes closed, swaying back and forth and whispering the Gettysburg address in front of his Lincoln shrine. He described in great detail how the doctors had removed Lincoln’s clothing to discover his refined musculature and gleaming, sculpted chest.
So I drew this in class and let him see it over my shoulder. Trololol.
all. of. the. fucking. awards.
Every single award ever.
You are my favorite person and I would like to humbly ask for your hand in marriage
Maybe they should make satellites for just under bridges?
Just a reminder to wear a condom, everyone.