I was about to take on thirty aliens with massive machine guns, and frankly, I was scared shitless. I took a deep breath, and with my mighty sword crushed the poor creatures. Don’t ask me how, I do not know. Don’t ask me why I had this dream either.
Back to reality, snapping turtles snapping at my toes. Ouch! Younger brother’s dream pet gone wrong; a dreadful milieu. There were two at first, but the big one got lusty and soon we had lots of baby snapping turtles. You can’t ever count on those things to not get knocked up. Then there was… my mother. She had a tendency to get knocked up as well. There was Jon, then there was me, then there was Sally, Margaret, Christian and finally Blake. All six of us were from different fathers except Jon and me. When I was little I planned to take a quest in search of my father. I still plan on it, actually. I also plan on not getting knocked up until sometime after college. We call mother by her first name; Jamie. It seemed more suiting.
I picked up a pretty stone on the sidewalk and slipped it in my jacket pocket. I liked stones, liked to skip them, liked to collect them. I liked flowers too, and comic books. I walked cutely on my way to school; I walked because walking to school was rather trite. Betty Bauman lived three houses past me on the walk to school. She would walk with me sometimes, but on most occasions her mom would drive her in that pretty golden Jeep that she bought last year during June.
Happy Spring! Leaves began to grow back on the plum tree in the Smiths’ front yard, and birds would chirp. I liked it sometimes but usually it was just annoying. I picked up another pretty rock and shoved it in my pocked. Ouch! Too many rocks, some also from last week, accumulated and caused back pains.
The story begins; at my school, we had a big dance at the end of the year for the Juniors and Seniors. This event was called “The Prom.” I was a sophomore and I’d never been to “The Prom.” This year I was determined to go, and I would. I wasn’t one for conventional affairs, but something was enchanting about a “Prom;” a pretty dance where all the boys and girls go and usually end up fucking in the backseat of a car afterwards. I sauntered onward to Hell, a place where dreams where shattered and A’s were given out only to either super-geniuses or big breasted blondes. I was not either of those things. I was sardonic.
Caitlyn Bowers slapped me hard on the arm, what a pretty girl she was, and what pretty golden hair. Ouch. My arm stung.
“Whoops.” She cackled.
…Evil psycho bitch. Why do girls do that? It’s not very funny.
Saunter, saunter, saunter. I walked to Hell in no hurry. I met Lucy, a sanguine girl with a pointy nose, in front of the giant statue of Michael Williamson. Michael Williamson was the headmaster, aka: Communist Dictator #1. Lucy and I talked for a few minutes about last nights History assignment and the pep rally this afternoon, pointless and meaningless conversation, and next walked inside.
Hooray! Pep rally means no English class today. Literature is a wonderful thing, but English class was a different story entirely. One who loves literature does not succeed in such a class, art is not an issue here. One who knows how to manipulate and suck-up succeeds in such a class. I don’t succeed.
To the story; I read the first one of student council’s many posters promoting “The Prom.” To the story; I screamed with elation. To the story; Matthew Daniels asked me why I screamed. To the story; I replied; “Prom!” To the story; No one wants to go to “The Prom” with a girl who is eager about it. To the story; Shucks.