We're on the road to nowhere....

Pissin' the Night Away

Hells yes, I'm quoting Chumbawumba. I'm not above (below...?) quoting catchy pop songs from a couple years ago. Especially when it fits the occassion.

The plan for tonight is simple. Stay away from the world and slaughter myself with this big bottle of Jack Daniels I've been saving. No, I haven't been saving it, that's a lie. I've actually been suckin' on it every now and then to get me a little loopy. Not the point. Tonight I'm gonna stay out of the world. After all, I've already established that the traditional new year means exactly nothing to me. Just a time to change calendars. Might as well continue the trend of noncelebration.

STILL Ill

This goddamn illness never ends. I think I might have AIDS, or some other immune system disease. Yeah. That's the way to go. If you're gonna get sick, get fucking sick. Don't just halfass it. Really kick that shit into high gear and fuck yourself up hard. Jesus. It's like I'm asking this to happen to me. Maybe I should ask Mofo to dream about me. Fuck off, Mofo, 'afore I sic PETA on you.

Goddamn animal killer.

7th Grade

While eating lunch today I started thinking about 7th grade, for some reason. Strange thoughts from 7th grade. That was probably my least favorite time in school, because I switched from elementary school, where I was a big-dog 6th Grader to a puny-ass 7th Grader.... 6th Graders had big balls. Everyone else looked up to us, but the 7th graders were easy pickin's, cause we were the new guys, we didn't know our way around. Didn't even know how to use a locker. Might as well have painted a target on our foreheads and let the 9th graders stand us up by a wall and shoot us. Put us out of our collective misery.

It was in 7th grade that I learned about masturbation. Before 7th grade, I didn't know what it was. And when I first heard about it, I still didn't know what it was. All I knew was that I was being accused of jacking off, and that it sounded bad, so I of course denied doing it. Which was the truth! I hadn't done it! Yet. That came later.

The guy accusing me of jacking off was named Josh Morton. He had a big vulgar mouth and little eyes and lots of freckles and short hair. He wasn't bigger than me, but I had no doubt he could have kicked my ass. He intimidated me. Upon recollection I think it was his mouth more than his size that intimidated me -- he never shut up, and he knew about things that I had no clue about. But now that I look back at him, I see he wasn't that smart after all. I had lunch and PE with Josh Morton. One day during PE Josh started sliding his fingers in and out of a hole in a concrete wall. I watched him, cause I had no clue what the fuck he was doing. Finally he noticed me and said, "That looks good, don't it? You wanna do that, don't'cha?" in his redneck hick accent. I had no idea what was supposed to look good about it, but I could tell he was getting his jollies from doing it. I don't remember what I said. I just remember how interested Josh was in fingerfucking a concrete hole. I've gotta wonder if he's gotten any smarter.

That same year I had a Cuban lady for a math teacher. Mrs. Cerice was her name. Pronounced Suh-ree-see. I didn't like her at first, because her accent was so thick I couldn't understand half of the things she said, which made it hard to understand what she was teaching... but I gained respect for her one day. Back then, the Simpsons had just come out and were probably at the height of their popularity (yeah, they're still popular, but you don't see too many people in Simpsons T-shirts now). Right after her class, while in the halls, a friend of mine and I were reciting quips from the show back and forth. There was no conversation -- we were just reciting lines. You have to keep in mind that when you're in 7th grade you're at the height of mental retardation. So we're just talking shit... and I say, fairly loudly, "I'm Bart Simpson, who the hell are you?!" Just my luck, there was a teacher behind me, and she didn't take too kindly to the "hell" I'd said. It was the home ec teacher who doubled as the cheerleader trainer/coach/whatever. This was the beginning of my dislike of cheerleaders. This woman pulled me aside and asked me what I said. I told her. I'm proud to say that I didn't lower my voice when I said it. She evidently took that as a sign of disrespect. She asked me where I'd just come from, and I told her Mrs. Cerice's class. She took me back. She told Mrs. Cerice everything that happened, and said, "I'll leave you to deal with him." She left. Mrs. Cerise... haha... soon as the home ec teacher had closed the door, Mrs. Cerise rolled her eyes and said "Go to Class, Steven." I loved that lady from that second on.

The next year I got in a fight in the computer room and broke two monitors. I rulz.