The art exhibit (a):

Teenage idiocy is a hard hump to roll over.

The need for constant attention, the thrive for rebellion, the demand for interest: it's a hurdle race, and none of us participating are well-trained athletes.

In fact, we're all just fat kids, with ego sagging down our bums, potato chip ambitions, tv screen realities - going through life is not an easy task. We need the plush cushion between our thighs; we need them damp with our agitated libidos of personality pursuit.

Don't judge us, don't pinch your brows together - paint us a picture - like a French girl - paint us. Paint us with your most hated of colors for all we could care.

Strip us naked.

Awe at the bulges beneath my breasts, the excess skin my belly demands, the sweat and grime behind my neck, the untrimmed hair I boast with pride. Paint it all in oil, but on your cheapest canvas.

And don't forget the details: let my scars guide your stroke. I am hap-hazarded; I am an order that requires your conduct.

Then frame our portraits on your walls. Let it glisten beneath your yellow lime light. Keep the room dim. Keep the floors clean - the walls white-washed.

Glorify us.

Tell the tale of the fat kids' dinner plate filled with disagreement, then pour the crowd a glass of conformism: get loud and drunk beneath the wine of our swollen eyelids.

Fill the room with laughter. Point around those fingers - those nail-polished fingers, stained with the blood you name 'wisdom' - point them at us and 'rouse us with hunger.

Slobbering lips, rumbling stomach: let us us eat ourselves away in your gentle dismay.

Cannibalize us.

Let this spotlight glimmer burn away distinction. Let our names be written in the same bronze plaque of your father's urn.

Let us all be this: equal.