bad_writing anonomous ...he flies back into himself as his brain awakens to the calling of his name. He knows it's monday. He knows he has to get up. "Only one more minute," he prays, but he knows that he won't get it. He rolls out of bed onto the floor with an audible thump. Slowly, he crawls over to his bag, where he has all he'll need for the day. He grabs a clean pair of socks and yesterday's clothes and walks the 14 steps to the bathroom. He grabs a towel off the rack and turns on the hot water. Oh, if only his arms weren't so sore. He slowly climbs into the bathtub and cringes as the cold water bounces off the wall into his face. "need more hot water," he whispers along with a few choice expletives. He reaches over to turn on the hot water and that's when he notices that yesterday's bruises are turning a sickly green color. "Shit, how am i going to hide these?" he wonders. He sits againt the wall and the floor and slips into a half-sleep state. He dreams about what his life could be, what it could have been, and what it isn't. He awakens again to his name being called. It sounds strange from behind the giant door and shower curtain, but that's to be expected in a middle class apartment. He gets dressed slowly and painfully and spends the usual 10 minutes fixing his hair in the mirror. It's almost long enough, but not quite. He knows that when he opens the door and walks out, the yelling will begin again, right where it left off last night. But perhaps another cheerful bowl of cheerios will make it alright. There is utter silence throughout the entire "meal." Nothing but the tedious crunching of O-shaped cardboard, at least, that's what it tastes like. "After a while," he muses to himself, "you kind of get used to it all..." After the wonderful morning ritual, he grabs his stuff and walks the 23 steps to the door, wondering what new horrors await him today. "Just 7 more hours," he promises himself. He walks step by step, his head slightly lowered, to the awaiting car. his hair falls down into his eyes and all the chemicals he put in it start to burn. but he doesn't care. He opens the back door and dumps his stuff on the seat, careful to keep the CD player in his pocket from falling out. He opens the front door without a word and straps himself in. He reaches into his deep pocket and takes out his music. The first few miles are bearable, he's still in Sacramento after all. he makes it to the freeway before it happens. "Shit!" he mutters. The batteries are dead. Absolutely, completely dead. He'll have to listen to the sounds of the car for the next 15 minutes. Either that or sleep. He ponders what he's going to do when he gets to where he's going. He knows he's already made up his mind, but maybe this time will be different. "Just one more time," he tries to convince himself. He knows he won't be able to do it this time. The car pulls up to it's desitnation and he glances hurriedly out the window as he gathers his things. He steps out of the car and barely makes it to the door before his head starts to spin. "Today's the last day," he keeps telling himself. He knows that he has to catch the bus in 10 minutes but the house is so warm -- not a home, just a house -- He takes a few shaky steps and trips over the backpack lying on the floor. he groans as he tries to get up. He is consumed by his need of what waits on that computer. As he makes his way to the computer he feeds the flame of doubt burning in his chest. He knows he shouldn't but at the same time, he knows he needs to. He sits with the keyboard in his lap, debating whether or not to type those 2 simple words and press the enter key. He knows it's only more trouble for him, but he NEEDS to do it. He's addicted, as if it were the most addictive drug in the world. 3 minutes until he has to catch the bus. He can at least start it, if not finish it. He can come back for it later, after he gets home. He's one minute late. He grabs his stuff and rushes out the door when he remembers he needs batteries. He Streaks back inside and flies up the stairs and into his room. He grabs three batteries from his drawer and leaps down the staircase on his way down. He jumps over the threshold and forgets to lock the door. It doesn't matter though, who would want any of his crap? He runs down the street and barely catches the bus just as it's pulling away. Fortunately Monica's driving today. She stops for him and he makes his way through the throngs of people into an empty seat. The bus ride is alright, nobody talks to him, and he's okay with that. The less people say about you, the less you get hurt right? His music's playing fine and he's alive. That's all that matters to him. He knows that in 7 or 8 minutes he'll have to take a deep breath and step off the bus onto the school grounds but he can wait until that time to worry about it. All he has to do for now is relax and listen to his music. What would he do without his music? He doesn't know. He doesn't want to go to school today. He doesn't know what's due in what class, all he knows is that he didn't do it. He knows he has a spanish midterm that he hasn't studied for, he knows he has to give a presentation on software piracy in his computers class, he knows that he only got 4 hours of sleep last night, he knows he's fucking screwed. But he doesn't care, "so long as i make it through one more day, i'll be alright," he promises himself. He imagines what his life could be like if he took more risks. He imagines what his life could be like if he cared less about how he makes people feel. They're all afraid of him. He doesn't understand why. He knows it's not because of the way he dresses, he knows it's not because of the way his eyes always seem to be watching them, he doesn't understand, that he's stronger than them, and that frightens them. He drifts into a restless sleep as the wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round. It's time to take that deep breath and get off the bus. He knows that nobody will be glad to see him. He knows that nobody will run to embrace him. He's been gone for 17 hours, but they don't even notice. He walks to his first peiod English class while thinking about how stupid reality T.V. is. He walks past all the preps, the jocks, the skaters, and all the other labels. He knows they would all label him if they could. He laughs to himself, mindful of all the staring eyes. Even the teachers are staring at him. He almost cracks up. It's so fucking hilarious. "Hey Fag!" someone yells at him, finally getting the guts to say something stupid. He notices, stops for a moment, and keeps walking, he's not in the mood to fight right now. "Hey Stupid Faggot!" the same person yells again. He pauses, but decides to keep walking, this time with a swifter gait. He hears the footsteps coming from behind him. He comtemplates what getting in another fight would do to him, but he decides that he doesnt' care. What else does he have to live for? He waits until the person is 3 feet behind him, then he quickly spins around, grabs them by their collar before they have a chance to react, and leans in close. "i don't care what the FUCK you get off on, but if i ever hear you say that word again, i swear to any god you care to name that i will GREATLY reduce your chances for survival in this world," he snarls. He storms off in the worst mood he's been in for at least a month. "stupid fucker," he mutters to himself. The bell rings, and it's time for English. As he walks into his English class he takes no note of all the people staring at him. He slowly sits down at his desk and gets ready for the next 50 minutes. The rest of the class is reading "To Kill A Mockingbird". He's comtemplating this mornings events. He knows that he's not supposed to let his emotions take over like that but he figured it was worth it if one more person was too scared to say that word anymore. He knows that he won't live up to what he promised earlier. He knows that he won't live up to a lot of his promises. He tries to hide inside his head but the eyes that he knows are on his back are burning too deep to escape. He could really go for a nice juicy hamburger now, but he knows that nobody would buy him one and he doesn't have enough money to buy one himself. The bell rings reluctantly and he smiles, because he knows what awaits him next period. On the way to spanish, he sees the kid he talked to earlier, he smiles and "Johnny" (because that's what his new name is) bolts in the other direction. "At least he'll have a nice story to tell all his friends," he thinks. He passes the woodshop and metal shop rooms on his way across campus and notices that they're unusually quiet. "Perhaps someone died," he muses. But he's not worried, he doesn't know anybody who really deserved to live anyway. He walks and walks and barely makes it to class on time. He sits down in his seat and prepares for his most hated class of the day. He has a midterm today, thank God. That means, when he's done, he gets to read, his only passion aside from music. The usual stares acompany him wherever he goes, and this class was no different. He wonders why they still continue to stare day in and day out. It's been 5 months since school started. He wonders if he's really that fascinating. the teacher hands him his test carefully, so she doesn't have to touch him. "I must be contagious," he thinks as he gives her a wink. He stares down at it uncomprehensively. After about 30 minutes he manages to finish it. He gets up to turn it in and, of course, everybody stares at him as he walks towards the basket to drop it off. He stops one step before he reaches it. He can almost feel them all flinch. He smiles to himself and staples the 3 pages together, then drops them into the basket. He notices that he's the first one done. He goes back to his desk, violently open his backpack, and takes out his book. Everyone finally gets back to staring at their own tests except for one person. It's Johnny. Johnny holds onto a grudge like a child holds onto it's favorite toy. He never noticed that Johnny was in this class before. He and Johnny lock eyes for about a minute, but for him it feels like forever. There is such a look of loathing and jealousy in Johnny's eyes that he knows today will not end well. Johnny finally breaks eye contact and gets back to doing his test, with 25 minutes left of class. He turns his attention to his book. He reads and lives the story like he does every day. It's a very long book, one that he doesn't expect to finish any time this year. The bell rings again and he treks to his computers class. He falls asleep in front of his computer but that's okay because he's in the corner where nobody can see him, not that they want to anyway. The teacher calls his name for presentation but he's fast asleep. To avoid causing himself trouble the teacher moves on to the next student. He wakes up to find himself in a dark, empty room. "fuckers," he whispers under his breath as he grabs his backpack and tries to figure out what time it is. He's missed lunch and now it's time for 6'th period. Science. He loathes almost everyone in his science class. Unruly, loud, boisterous, annoying, prejudiced, fuckers. We're watching the president talk about missions to mars today. "Who cares?" he thinks, "we have a couple billion dollars of debt in the U.S., and that stupid dick wants to spend over $1,000,000,000,000 on going to FUCKING MARS?!?!" he screams in his head. Or at least, he thought it was in his head. Everyone turns to him and stares their familiar stares of confusion, anger, and fear. He stares back at them all one by one and they slowly turn away. The bell rings, and he figures it's time to go to P.E. He knows they're doing a dance unit in P.E. He knows that he will never find anyone brave enough or smat enough to dance with him. The teachers have given up trying to make people dance with him. They all faint or run away screaming anyway. They figure he's some kind of a curse. He sits on the sidelines in his black sweatshirt and watches as everyone else dances with mild disinterest. After 45 agonizingly grueling minutes, the bell rings and he's free to get back on the bus and go home. He drags himself to the bus and pays the bus driver his 75 cents. He goes to the back row of seats where nobody else dares to sit so he can be alone with his thoughts. He's used to the familiar scene, everybody crammed into the front half of the bus because they're so afraid. he laughs at them all. He sits and stares out the window for 42 minutes until he arrives at his stop. He thanks the bus driver for the ride, and thanks himself for not crying all day. He arrives at his house and slowly turns the doorknob. He enters into the dingy grey light of mid-afternoon window-light. he makes his way again to the computer to see what he has earned today. He knows that he shouldn't again, he knows that it will only cause more pain and screams, but he does anyway. He does, and when he's done with it, he deletes it all, like he always does. He's not willing to let someone else find it. He knows what THAT would do to him. He makes himself some tomatoe soup, checks his empty email box, wonders why he even got an email account, and walks upstairs to his dismal room. He blares the music and cries himself to sleep once again, ready to face tomorrow... 040120 ... Nirvanic Blind Is this true? 'cause I think it's fucking great. Now all you need is another weirdo to notice you so yall can plot against all the assholes that are too caught up in their ordinary lives to notice anything beautiful. There's power in numbers, and as hard as you may find this to believe, your not alone. Start a conversation with the most silent person you can find. Comfort can be found. Fuck man start a conversation with me. Go head. I don't judge. 040120 ... almostgone I loved reading this. 040330 ... oldephebe anonomous - you're beautiful man..you'll find others..like you..artistic, strange and beautiful and man..but you will..it may have to wait until you get to college..but you will.. this just damn near blew me away.. ... 040330 ... oldephebe i know what it's like to have an army of eyes stapled to you...take nirvanic blinds' advice though...i did that i reached ou to other word nerds and artistic people in high school and knowing them helped me make it..did the same in the several colleges i attended...i know what it's like not to fit in with either black or white students or c0-workers and be utterly desperately alone..until you run across that one soul that isn't motivated by your attractiveness (wich i kinda loathe) or your keeping it real ratio - maybe she's an organ virtuoso with tight naturally curly auburn hair ..who's shilling mutual funds for a living..anyway..this is not about me..but god can i ever relate.. 040330 ... stork daddy is like a bad photograph. you know that the moment itself, the tableau was expansive, was quite a feeling within and without, it's just the wrong parts were framed, or the camera wasn't sufficient. you don't get to see what they saw. 040330 ... x ... if there's one person who knows about it... 040330 ... stork daddy i skipped a few years and now look at me 040330 ... stork daddy i don't even know what the person who was using my name to describe me means. i was however describing my own writing thank you very much. x marks the spot. 040330 what's it to you? who go blather from