Live With It
I hated high school but I miss it because I hated it. I’m drawn to this teenage angst that gives me a reason to complain. Everyday I walked or took the bus, I debated what the meaning of my existence was. But at least, in Florida, commuting is less than laundry alone. I mean, I go through fifties weekly now. And don’t even get me started on my phone bill. But, in high school versus now, I think I just had a case of the downs. Not retardation, I mean confusion. You could see it clearly in my disgruntled brows. But I’m inching twenty soon so the only thing that disappoints me is when I try to be frugal with Chinese food for weeks and I find that I’ve run out and then the bathroom really reeks. And I’m exposing my habits in the privacy of a boudoir and I forget that girls don’t pee or burp or fart. Or pick their noses or their weggies apart. So forget what I just said. I’m as sweet as a Sweet Tart.
There were general waves and people I joked with. And boys grabbing me at the waist where I stared at their hands confused. And so I was either a prude, one of the dudes, or neither when I mused them something crude. Like this one kid, his name was Terrance. We call him Haze now. He was going off about some bitch he fucked around town. And so my enthusiasm, amazed to hear the rest made him a little uncomfortable. So he wrapped the story up, exclaiming something about sleep. And I walked away feeling like a creep. I thought it was how people became friends. I wasn’t aware of my gender role or a self-concept or anything. Sometimes I’m lucky being finicky or slapstick.
Like when I used to ride to class on my friend Niko’s wheelchair. It had a motor and the turbo helped a ton. You should ask him for the express to Period Three. Plus his wheelies.. his wheelies were mad fun.
But when I came to college, I was presented with this freedom of inevitable likelihood. Because the freshman had no choice when we were hoisted like ship flags. And so I made sure to make as much boisterous noise. As I wanted. While we staggered to voice our every detailed highlight. But it didn’t help, even laughing and making fun of people we didn’t like. So I returned to home and instead discovered that I was unwillingly on a social strike.
I slept through my classes and sat on my ass and. I didn’t cover my GPA like it was the life I wanted to achieve. And so my grades were slacking. The days were lacking. The substance didn’t matter to me.
And I keep the whole bit about being born with Tourette’s to myself because it’s hard enough I have to confine myself tense like a mime or something. Except for a few seconds ago when I said it out loud and it echoed through this room and there this empathy throughout the crowd. Regardless, I was the no one. I never gave anyone hugs. I would’ve but they weren’t stuffed animals, meaning I couldn’t command genuine love. That’s real. You know, I watch my mother and my stepfather. She yells, “Babe!” and it seems the garbage cans line up faster than her tone thereof.
But I’m not mad at the fact that I was surrounded by one-track minds. I miss the pettiness and the, “Where’d you get that from?” We were all so easily impressed. We were animals and so standing on our hind legs was a step up from pounding on our chests when we came into the classroom and beatboxed on the desks. Yes, it was like Sister Act. One and Two. Because we were all that mattered. And our grades mattered, too.
There was this one kid, his name is David. And it seems I’m remembering everyone now. He would ask questions to correct our Government teacher. He was the pedantic Screech of Monarch. That was the name of my high school in Florida. I went to Trinity Catholic just before. So whatever gives me more credit I’ll claim. Just understand that I’ve been to public school and back, praise the Lord. But this David kid, he traumatized me. He is the reason I think I can’t keep up. I would say, “Hey, David what’d you do this weekend.” And he’d say, “Repair my seatlug.” And I’d say, “Dude, shut up.” I mean he is the fault of the negative connotations but I guess I am in part to blame.
So maybe it wasn’t me but my intolerance for socialization; for pain. For a while, I connoted it to maybe a social anxiety deriving from my syndrome. But, either way, the palindrome says one thing and one thing only. It’s that I miss not giving a shit. So call me depressed, I’ll live with it.