Dear Cruel World,
I hope you are happy with yourself. Really, I hope you are. I was living my life perfectly, in pure harmonious content, until 2006. During that dastardly year of our lord, you released upon the world a great plague, an unmitigated curse, Zak Efron. Having Mr. Efron be a household named soon took a tole on my persona; solely because I bear a striking resemblance to the High School Musical star.
So at the tender age of 15, I was cursed. Women would just throw themselves at me, and despite my best intentions, it was seemingly impossible to keep them at bay. Throughout my myriad of relationships, I believed that these girls had my best intentions at heart, but I was foolhardy. In reality, these women were using me, abusing my body for their own gains on the social ladder. I always held their best interests first and foremost, but they kicked my heart's ass. I was a broken man. Also I turned 16. My parent's threw me a raging house party at the yacht club.
When I was old enough to have the beard of a man, I embarked on a odyssey around the globe. Yet, my shackle to Mr. Efron was firmly latched to my soul, never relenting, even at the far corners of the earth. In Japan, the ripples in the famed koi fish bonds echoed one name "Zak Efron." The ghosts of the Roman Coliseum whispered in my ear "Zak Efron." In France, the people whispered to be in their glorious Germanic dialect "...Zak Efron..." I could not escape, I could not escape. I constantly felt unimportant as his existence overshadowed mine. People would meet me, see me, and instantly conjure fake expectations. Instantaneously relegating me to the shadowy abyss sometimes referred to as The Disney Channel.
My sister, having just turned 13 was having panic attacks, she was entering adolescence. No, she was not having panic attacks due to adolescence, but merely because she didn't like to travel. Making here a terrible traveling companion.
Returning stateside, I tried to distance myself from the Efron zeitgeist by becoming the one thing Zak could never be; a hipster. I bought skinny jeans, ray bands, and spent entire afternoons album hunting at Amoeba. I also went camera shopping and finally decided on one that didn't take pictures anymore. Apparently that's in right now. Yet, this purchase soon ran into the inevitable issue of be not being able to post my new found indie cred on facebook, obviously due to my lack of a functioning camera. So, I did what any good Orange County boy would do. I hired a professional photographer, had him take photos of me holding a camera wrong, and then had him apply tacky looking, but indie, photoshop filters to all of the prints. Then I bought a Sigur Ros t-shirt. There from Norway, right?
Yet, even this strategy proved unsuccessful as Zak Efron inevitably bough a flannel. It was a sad day.
So now, I sit there with a glass of whisky in my hand, and a gun to my head. Goodbye cruel world, you were never going to accept my beauty. Never.
(Douchebag in my roommates English class)
PS: Don't take this personally Zak, I was just feeling hard done to that you were getting all the recognition, when I am clearly the better looking of the two of us. Also, you look like me, not the other way round. Try living with that every day of your life. It's fucking difficult.