They used to call me "bitch tits" in high school. You were a fat, loser, nobody that wallowed in self pity. You excessively consumed Pop Tarts, Ding Dongs and single serving MIcro Magic frozen french fries as your after school ritual. Raised by a single mother who worked three different jobs. TV became my mother and masturbation my best friend. Literally wore out one of my mother's pornographic VHS cassettes that she kept hidden in her closet. The thoughts of how many gallons of baby yolk that was released watching those tapes, make you smirk. Oh, the wasted servings of clam chowder.
Everyday at school you became the go-to joke, the focus of laughs in the gym locker room. Around the end of my freshman year you become somewhat of an insomniac. While everyone else was sleeping, you immersed yourself in pages of books that would eventually be red-flagged and banned in all local libraries. The things you can learn about the complexities of certain household items when mixed with equal parts of gasoline and frozen orange juice concentrate can make quite compelling reading.
Night after night. Am I asleep? Are you awake? I lose hope in civilization. I lose hope in myself. When you lose hope you become something else. Someone who lives in a life blurred between reality and fabrication. I'd find myself waking up in places I did not remember going. When I did find myself at school, I studied not books, but the people around me. Their faces buried in being popular. Having the best clothes. Gauging their importance by how many friends they had. How many parties they could attend. Accumulating mass quantities of material possessions. This sickness of self. This feeling that we are somehow God's gift to the world. That we are special and unique. A generation of children growing up being told that they are better, smarter and prettier than everyone else.
You'd wake up believing the lies. Wanting the hot new video game system. Trying to buy Levi's that your fat ass could not fit into. Maybe you'll buy them and lose weight later. Maybe you'll finally change.
What would everyone do if they knew that life doesn't matter. That our time is limited and the things that we are most concerned about Do. Not. Mean. Shit. We are a product of the same organic matter as a fucking weed growing in a field.
You'd read a story once about a girl who used to cut herself. Some shit about it making her "feel alive." You'd think she was crazy until one day this prick at school was busting your balls crazier than usual. He must have had a little dick. You usually would just sit there and take it, but this time you'd say something about fucking his mother in her ass cause she just wasn't quite tight enough. He'd punch me square in the face. I liked the taste of blood welling from my lip. I liked the immediate numbness I felt. I was changed somehow. I felt inspired. Unlike all the other jackasses in school, I didn't want to make a difference. I wanted to make an impact.
You wake up watching the Facts of Life on TV. Mom made meatloaf. She talks of maybe getting back with Dad. You hate your father, but somehow respect the shit out of him. She'd ask me how I'm losing so much weight. "Stair climber," was my response. Was I becoming another person?
Haiku's become my homework assignment:
Tree Falls In Forrest
No One Is There To Hear It
Noise It Makes Are Screams
Listen. It's right in front of your face. I want you to see it. I see a world where you can just let go. Where you fuck like you want to fuck. You look like you want to look. Where tomorrow will be the most beautiful day of your life. Where you prove that you are alive.
You wake up graduated from high school.
What next? You get a job.
You wake up filling out an application at some piece of shit corporate office building with traces of memories called Project: Drone. Waiting until the time is right. Waiting for something bigger.
Name of applicant: