Stranded Here As Black Sheep
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I found This Article On A Group called The Cutting Room And Would really Like To Share It. I'm Not Sure Who The Author Of This Piece Is But It Was Posted By Trowas Cirus Girl.

  The Sheep Article

She sits in front of me in math class. She has the beauty, the talent, the air. There's not one thing wrong with her, yet I still despise everything that she is. Don't get me wrong, I don't hate her
at all; I just simply hate everything that she is. She's all the boys' dreams. Beautiful body, or lack there of, and long flowing blond hair that just begs to have your fingers run through it. She
wears those beautiful, constantly seen clothes that hold those oh-so- well-known names. Her fake smile is just so beautiful; it makes me want to vomit.

But beauty is only skin deep, as they say. So what's inside? Oh, the lovely charity girl that picks up those starving puppies, shoves kibble down their throat, and then gets applauded for it. But she's still not beautiful because she only picks up those cute puppies. Those sick, emaciated, dirty puppies are far too much for her to handle; those puppies would tarnish that beauty that she holds so dear. She can't even get a foot near them, or else her white wool would turn completely black.

I'm one of those puppies. I can only suppose I'm every boys' worse nightmare, having been ignored by most that I'd love to have a chance with. I'm not emaciated; so I'm certainly not as attractive. No one touches my hair, being that they'd rather not receive excessive puncture wounds to their hands. I've yet to wear designer clothes, unless I've suddenly become a designer myself overnight. It's all hand-me-downs, garage-sale or thrift store merchandise, or things completely out of the common "style." My smile's not fake, since it
doesn't exist to begin with.

My inner beauty is non-existent; I won't lie. I won't do charity, since I'm too much of a charity case myself. I'll touch those sickly puppies, but only cautiously approach those pretty one's that she loves so much. But I don't want her to touch me. I'm a dying, diseased puppy, and I like it that way. I don't need to be cured and turned into the sheep that she'd be happy with. I'm a puppy, I'm disgusting, I'm a monster.

All in all, it shouldn't bother me, but it does. Why? Sheep. They stand, gawking in their little flocks, watching the puppies innocently cross the lawn. Those cud-chewing, gaudy, conformist, fleecy-haired animals; they all give those stares, snickers, grins. If you have a problem, keep your grass-chewing mouth shut, don't go "baah" to your little sheep friends about it. It's hardly as
amusing as you think.

I'm proud to be a puppy, even if I'm just another thing to be made fun of in this world. What gives the sheep the right? It's all their ignorance and misunderstanding nature. They give the excuse that we're weird, different, or, god forbid, "freaks." I now finally understand what some one meant when they said to me, "We hate what we do not understand." Hate me, see if I care, because I know, I will never be understood by any sheep.