Time to go to schoolà with a pair of matched pistols.

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Raw, putrid hatred. Impotent, festering rage. Imponderable frustration.

These states of mind are what I am. I am the persecuted martyr. I am the tormented misfit. I am the overlooked wanna-be. I… am… me.

I am a manufactured thing, forged within the infernos of society's mills, component upon component, fabricated atop the endless conveyors of its educational factories, neurosis upon neurosis, polished in the hardened grit of its universities and sold into the degradations of its marketplaces. I am a thing of your making.

Here, you cut me into this shape. There, you hammered me into that round. Everywhere about my person, you see the detail and artifice of your handiwork.

You are my artiste. I am your rendering.

See how my mouth ever curves in a sly sneer. It is fixed there for your pleasure, a reflection of you as returned from the tortuous mirrors of my own black mind. So long I have been your object of derision this countenance is all I have come to know. It is all I am able to fashion with the flesh and muscles of my face.

See how my eyes glint dully, darkly and meanly. This is how I watch you when you come and go. These orbs see you when you see me, and they return all that I expect of you. If they frighten you, then know you frighten me. If they confound you, then know, too, you confound me.

From the confused curiosity of my sidelong glances, which are all you allow me, I must frame my muddled world. Your presence before me offers skewed landmarks for my reference, since you respond to my direct gaze with smirks and scowls, since you deride my foremost approach with rebuke and insult. If you fail to understand me, then take comfort in the knowledge that I have never understood you.

See how my brow creases beneath the short crop of my bangs. If you wonder how I feel, then you may find your answer in its shadows and shades. How it hangs over the depth of my face, blacking its features in a bas-relief mask that I happily stamp onto my skull each morning. On the occasion that you choose to offer me a friendly greeting or a bright 'hello!', I surprise you with a sullen growl or a hostile grunt. I curse you, because you have cursed me.

I am a slight thing, though I am male, so you will not select me for your rough and tumble games. I am a graceless thing, though I am sensitive beyond estimation, so you will not embrace me for your mate. I am a clumsy thing, so you will not teach me better, yet I am clumsy because you never taught me to be anything other. I am a vulgar thing, though I express vulgarity as my impression of your art, and you will not further culture me with your cultured examples. I am a violent thing, though all violence I learned from your preferred forms of entertainment, so you will not allow me a human demeanor.

Therefore, I play lonely games alone. Therefore, I gratify myself alone. Therefore, I seek my own counsel alone. Therefore, I delve deeper into popular horrors alone. Therefore, I turn to violence for answers to all my questions, and I do so alone.

In the narrow confines of my room, I am alone. In the haunted hallways of my abode, I am alone. In the empty streets of my neighborhood, I am alone. In the crowded hallways of campus, I am alone. In the cramped cells of my classrooms, I am alone.

The world moves at a faster pace than I, or perhaps I move faster than it. A bubble of sightless and soundless nothing surrounds me. You move back and forth outside it, but I cannot touch you. You cannot touch me.

Occasionally, you stop to stare, witness to my human crime. Staring, you point your finger, accusing the misfit among you. You call your friends together before me, a judge convening his or her barristers, and, together, you have your court at my expense. As one, you make me your judgmental cruelty of the day. You render me your wicked watchword of the afternoon. I am the condemnation of your many jokes. I am the common cause that makes you one, the scapegoat of all your inner fears and insecurities and, therefore, the easy object of your collective rebuke. I am the hanger dangling from the noose of your scorn, dropped from the trapdoor of your ridicule.

Days upon days of my youth, you fashioned me so. Steely hard, you tempered me with the alternating hot and cold of your disregard. Precision dependable, you rendered me a clockworks response to your endless abuse. I am your whipping-boy robot. I am your masochistic machine. I am the aspiring height of your abysmal designs, the pinnacle prize of the depths of your depraved skills.

I am the shame of your pride. I am the pride of your shame.

If I am a manufactured thing, and you are the masters of my design, then it must surprise you to learn how I end. It must terrify you to know my purpose. It must horrify you to discover my will.

The eternal target should never strike back, after all. The infinite repository should never purposefully overflow, I suppose. The dutiful machine should never willfully murder its makers, I think.

Yet, today, I, the machine you have made, shall purposefully rise against you. Today, the mechanism must malfunction catastrophically. A vast, metallic monster, I will explode into countless parts and pieces, each a cog or gear of your design, of your manufacture.

I will send you tumbling into the dirt. I will bury you in debris. I will set your world to burning. Today, I will murder as many of you as I can.

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The Machine's Manifesto