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Why? Julie's young brain fired a familiar synapse response through one of her most well carved neuropathways. Why? What the hell is the point of this ritual? On this day, to commemorate the 4749th time the sun had risen since her birth, her parents had blown up multicolored balloons that proclaimed "Happy Birthday!" and hung them around their duplex. Julie had no need for this reminder. An arbitrary measure of time to roughly estimate how far along her body was in it's natural growth and inevitable decay. She suffered it, along with the onslaught of photographs and well wishes that morning not with a bitterness, but the same question that constantly plagued her: Why? Like her parents. She understood very much their love for each other. But why... marriage? Why submit to a ritual condoned by two groups celebrated for their mislogic: one, a cult that blindly follows ancient texts written and poorly translated from Hebrew and Aramaic into English about a scientifically disproved creator; and two, a flag waving group of transparent liars that encourage their peons to legalize their sex unions in order to produce more peons for future generations? Why waste their hard earned assets on a ring- a tradition not steeped in love, let alone theocracy or control, but instead diamond companies' greed? Why do they see a shiny rock as a valid reason to throw away wealth as a ritual sacrifice given to a capitalist image of romance? You know, because buying something the two of them might have needed would have been too practical. Julie got the her 7th grade English class three minutes early as always. She watched the chest beating displays of her male classmates and marveled at the awkward beauty in their newfound testosterone surges brought on by puberty. Each one attempting to display their alpha male status to varying degree of success- although their attempts were mostly wasted, as most of the females in the class were more interested in the latest teen heartthrob, whose image was plastered obsessively all over every single notebook they would own, than in the possibility of any real human contact with someone not manufactured to please them, but someone who was actually possibly capable. "Good morning class. Today is a very special day!" Mrs. Whitehouse said, interrupting her thoughts and bringing her to yet another inevitable reminder of... "It's Julie's birthday today! Everyone say "happy birthday Julie!" As some mumbled and some screamed the response as demanded, Julie couldn't help but feel disgusted. Why? Why are all adults under the false assumption that anyone under five and a half feet needs to be spoken to with an exaggerated rise and fall of the voice that one would use to communicate with an unspeaking infant? Why is it thought that the best way to transition into adulthood is to be forced to memorize and regurgitate information presented in such a disgustingly patronizing tone and manner? Why am I aware of this phenomenon, but failing classes? "Let's open presents, and then we'll go out and do whatever you'd like!" Julie's mother said later that night. One by one, package after package, she asked herself, why? Why am I given dolls whose only capabilities are to act out female gender stereotypes? Why is it assumed that a G-rated book about young romance is going to be relatable by me? Why on earth would I want to listen to music so obviously crafted just to be popular with girls my age when I could be listening to something that speaks to feelings that are true, and less easy to express, than in simple rhymes and rhythms? Why is 13 not seen to be as close to 18 as it is to 8 by society? "Mom, Dad, thanks for everything. And I know exactly what I want to do tonight" Julie said. "I want to go to the homeless shelter and give these gifts to some little girl that needs them." "Give them away, pumpkin? But why?" Julie knew the answer in herself, but didn't know how to say it. Because these gifts were below her. Because some people really need something like this to keep them going and to give them hope. Because for some people, the beauty of knowing your own truth is more important than loving what we're told to love. "Because, Mom. It's the only thing that makes any sense to me."