Hell. That’s what I see it as. Home. School. Life. I just don’t find it too appeasing. Does anyone? Being one of the many people that cannot stand any kind of deficient individuals, I found myself kind of alone seventy percent of the time, which was fine by me. I like my private time. I like my quiet. I like my thinking time, and I am extremely content with it. They talk so much and are overly aggressive. These people my age, are not the people my mind says they are. They are the people I despise. Immature and obnoxious. Untamed and, more times than not, driving me insane. To my dark side, to say the least. Why is he talking so loud? Shut up. I hate you! I shouldn’t say such a thing, but it’s how I feel, so why the hell not. It’s not a sin to hate someone you don’t even know, but is causing you a considerable amount of mental torture. Everyone’s excited about today. It’s graduation day, and I just want to get out of here. Finally. I’m standing next to a stranger who used to be one of my best friends. What happened? I don’t even care anymore. I feel like I should say something. I’m not though. We don’t even make eye contact. If we made eye contact I would have to say something. We don’t. That bitch Mrs. Fredrickson is making her slightly readjusted speech from five years ago, and she’s stammering. She’s probably thinking about her upcoming divorce. It would be high-larious if wasn’t so sad, and the school wasn’t gossiping about it. Could anyone think of why she was crying her eyes out in her office three weeks ago. The person to my left is a person I’ve wanted to talk to all of my high school career; Josh. And by God’s good grace, he would be the poor bastard to sit next to me on the day of which I call, “The Unnecessary Judgment Day”. Not so much as judgment as it is unnecessary. Josh…is fucking beautiful and I have gotten a slew of hints from him that he was somewhat enamored with me as well. Too bad the only kind of verbal interaction we’ve ever had was in eleventh grade English class, when we were all assigned to do a project in the most awkward and unfortunate group I’ve ever had the displeasure of being a part of. Josh being there was the only “pleasure” I got out of it. This cannot be over quick enough. The guy behind me is still being a dick. I turn around to see who this person is and I am actually pleased to see Michael. As happy as I am to see him, I’d still like to punch him dead in his mug. Save the silence. Why is she still talking? Sit down. Ponder your failing marriage instead of glamorizing the idiots graduating here. Here on this unnecessary day, full of malice and over indulgences in the feelings of achievement and the taking in of knowledge that will all seem to float away during the summer. She doesn’t realize, I am impatient. The day in which I sit between two people I’d like to talk to but will not. And not just because my social anxiety is acting up, but because I am that dark person that sits in the left corner of the room and laughs randomly at semi-amusing events that happened over three years ago. It’s stupid that we have so many ceremonies that glorify the passage of time, when really all we are doing is celebrating our own inevitable deaths. Shut up! Right now, I don’t consider Michael a friend. He called me Dark & Twisty.
Dark? I’m not dark. Twisty? I’m not twisty. If I am any of those things it’s because I am just slightly anti-social, and I have brief suicidal tendencies. They don’t last long, it’s just a thing. I’m sure I’m not the only one to think or do so. The mind wonders is all I’m saying. You put yourself in front of a Picasso painting and tell me it doesn’t make you think. Then again, most people don’t ponder like I do. I could be described as having a fuster-cluck mind of Ayn Rand, The Mad Hatter, Lord Byron, and Nikola Tesla all put in one poorly misshapen body. Feeling uncomfortable in my own skin is the usual for me, do to severe annoyance with humans and frustration with how my left shirt collar is pointing slightly more upward than the right one. Zone in. She continues to talk. Zone out. I wonder when the schmucks from my father’s side of the family will leave. They’ll probably hang around a little while longer just to see if they can figure out another way to critique my mother’s parenting. Randall is probably aching for a drink. Gloria is most likely pondering a final solution in which she will finally move out of her parents house…for good. My grandmother is realizing that I wasn’t as dim witted as she once thought, or she maybe thinking of what to sing at choir rehearsal on Sunday to please her priest and her man. My grandfather is no doubt dreaming of some young fine thing from the Red Fox; a truly foul and shameless club, famous for handing out woo-hoo jobs and God almighty dances. It’s like a family tradition actually. My father, my uncle, my cousins (whom I am sure I do not remember at this time), and my grandfather. I’d rather not. Save the Chippendales, please. I’d rather salvage all the woo-hoo jobs & God almighty dances for those who might actually pay for some coked up bimbo to do what she does to her filthy boss. And also save the gunshot wounds that are found lodged in the fat folds of the coke whore’s thighs. I wonder if Gloria ever went there. What if they ask me to go with them tonight? I have that feeling that they will. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. “It’s a male’s right of passage.” Yeah, for a straight man. No sorry, a shameless straight man, which most of them are. But what about a sexually independent male’s right of passage? I’d want both guy and girl. Nothing is this black and white. Wow. There’s a white cow in front of me. And a black horse in the back. I’d love to turn around and see if Astrid is wearing her dainty little headband like she usually does. She’s not. Zone in. She’s still talking. The hell? Zone out.
Falling on stage would be a problem. A funny one. I’d like to see someone drop. The hilarity of it might make me feel a little better. Crap, I’m laughing a little. Hope no one can see this awkward ass smile being bestowed upon my face. I wipe that smile away. What if I fall? Everyone will see--POP! Some whore behind me is popping gum. For a second it reminded me of that time I kept blowing up balloons after seeing the movie about the house and the old man and all the colorful floating things he used to pilot his home. What hues of blue and yellow could do to a debauched mind such as mine. And what did happen to that old man after my mother and stepfather’s wedding. I’m sure he has not fallen to the other side of life yet. If so, then good for him. Who the hell wouldn’t want to be in the place that is really our home. I wonder if I believe in heaven or hell. I do. I believe in heaven. Not so much hell. I find myself doubting a lot of what religious officials say. I mean when you’ve got cults and pedophiles as holy saviors, things are not going to pan out a-okay all the time. When the Christians are beating the frightened homosexuals, you have to stop and think. Yet no one does. “If the bible says it, it’s true to me.” I think we all know who wrote these bibles. The lord himself did not, neither did his wonderful son, so am I going to sit here zoning this wretch of a woman out, and having a debate in my la cabeza or am I going get my skinny ass up on the stage and get that diploma, and get the hell out of here? The latter of the two gives me great pleasure to even visualize on. “Get your ass up there, bitch.” It’s Kevin. I zone in. “Oh.” I’m really tired, and my mood swings are catching me off guard. I can’t pretend not to want to curse his name. Yet I pride myself on some kind of leveled maturity. I get up and walk to the creaking stairs and across the hollow stage to the vulture handing out the little scrolls that, in my mind read: Screw your life.
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