Meditations of High School- I

The seniors, they walk with their chins so far in the air that they might as well be in their own assholes. Their eyes can only look forward, to whatever inane pursuit they will take up this Saturday-they are going to get SOOOOOO wasted-or maybe they eyeball that girl they've been trying to get with since 6th grade. Their footsteps fall as if the fact that the floor is gonna be there when their Air Force 1's smack it is some kind of a priori truth.


The freshman's necks must have some kind of disorder where they must be eternally bent down to look at the floor. Some would say their eyes dart, but I think it is more like a merry-go-round, always ending back at that one point right where they floor melts into the wall. The herk-jerk of their knees tell me that they think, or know, that if they happen to put their wal-mart plastic shoes in the wrong place or with too much weight then the world will crumble to pieces. Or maybe that big ball from Indy Jones will roll out of the Library, who knows, but whatever it would be, it would obviously be their fault.


In between I see nothing of value, nothing worthy of emulation. I see some amphibians, who have escaped the egg of introvert, but are not quite the douchebag of a frog that they will, blossom? into.

I think back to when I was that age, younger maybe, and I remember how they used to tower over me. Not in stature though, in attitude, in their total unwillingness to shut up or to or to even talk below the "I am so insecure that I need to make sure everything that blouts out of my mouth is heard and recognized" decibal level.
Now I walk through the Junior High hall and think, "Damn these kids are short". or maybe I said it, probably very loudly.

I've only ever wanted to be:
an astronaut, when I watched
Tom Hanks almost die.

I've only ever wanted to be:
the president, when I tasted
the sour grapes people still have over Nixon

I've only ever wanted to be:
a chef, when i felt
the burn of the flame on my skin

I've only ever wanted to be:
a rockstar, when I heard
how Keith Richards can barely talk.

but the in-between times?
when my eyes are not
inundated with sploches,
when my ears are not
drowning in booms?

nothing.
but not that kind.
the kind Parmenidas would oggle.
the kind that is something...if not everything.
the kind like the space between the stems and the stave.
the kind that makes the doughnuts that people call pitches mean anything.
the kind that most don't notice, but would turn to psychopathia if it happened to leave.

It swims, nay, motorboats
through my veins, and finds
the tiny little
warp points, like Mario.
World 8-3. assuming
that eight is the lick
in the measure three,
that i just can't play.

bar three is rests.

rests is the slur
that something calls
nothing, when something
has nothing better
to do.

2/3rds done

none are irreplaceable.
even the worthless;
the ones you hide from
or the ones you bury
into the deepest recesses of your mind.
Where they can play alone,
in long abandoned
swingsets, like that one girl
who used to kick you
in the 3rd grade.

no one is irreplaceable.
even those that idle,
the tingly ones
that leave murmurs,
on chilled flesh,
where they had feigned
a loving touch.
The ones that float
to the top of your frying pan.
on your front burner,
the tilted one,
where you always manage
to spill the eggs
all over yourself.

heh.

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I wrote in things for all the unopposed votes today.

I wrote in Stephen Colbert, but I have no idea what for.

I wrote in The Grim Reaper as Coroner, because that just makes sense.

I wrote in The Cookie Monster for what ever Lupus was running for, because god know even overly-possessed fictional puppet would be less of an ass than him.

and when someone is unopposed, it says "Democrat-Republican" under him instead of whatever they are.

I'm sorry, I didn't know it was 1803. Can I vote for Jefferson instead?

Ruth ate a Reuben and it changed her life.







happy?



you can add that to my credentials of best-picker of food ever.

(although it doesn't take a genius to figure out corned beef + jewish girl = happy)

give up, you're a sham, go get a degree in business or something and hope to work in cubicle all day. marry the first women you see. hope to have a kid you can force to do some sport or activity so that he hates himself, but you can feel redeemed as a human being.

that's roughly my mental process at about 10:30 a.m. today.


actually my lesson wasn't that bad. i learned a whole shit load.
i don't think i've ever met a ~5'6" <140 pound lady as intimidating as her.



I coulda saw katy today.


i didn't though. I don't think it would have went very well, I still want her too bad.

i see her online and i feel like i should talk to her, but I also feel like there'd be nothing to talk about. maybe i should call her, force us into some type of conversation.








like she would pick up.




i am eligable for 113 scholarships according to some site that is basically the google of free money.

and i am going to apply for every fucking dollar i can bitches.