Summer's here, and I feel restless. After a year that molded me into something completely different, this season is destined to be the kiln that will render me forever in my present state. This summer feels worse than others, and I'm terrified of this never-ending heat wave. The incessant buzzing of the cicadas are magnified inside of my head, and I pray for rain even though I've almost forgotten what clouds look like. The expanse of blue above me makes me cling to the Earth in fear of falling into the sky. I don't know if there's hope for me, but to hell with it. I'm going to write the whole thing down. I will change names. All of my friends, childhood haunts - I have to. Not out of love, out of fear. I am a true coward when it comes to my thoughts, and no one can ever know that I was the one who wrote this. This feels all wrong. My English teacher stamped good grades on all of my papers, but when I read them they all seem pathetic. I don't know what anyone expects of me. I'm just a kid trying to get through life without drowning in the sea of gray, but managing to stay a wallflower all the same. It has its benefits. But, I digress. I guess this whole thing started with a mop.
I couldn't understand why this kid kept walking around me in circles. He had definitely mop that same path about five times, even though the floor had been spotless to begin with. I wonder what I looked like at that moment- dark makeup surrounding my eyes that I obstinately refused to take off even when my newfound friend told me point blank that it looked ridiculous, an obscure band t-shirt, and black skinny jeans.
At that moment in time, my 8th grade mind had made the assumption that this style definitely made me look sexy. Well, apparently this boy thought so also. Or maybe New York kids just have a different perspective. Me, I was strictly a Southwest kid. At the mention of cowboys, tumbleweeds, or the dreaded OK Corral, my eyes would shoot sparks and I would feel that it was my duty to educate the poor soul who had made the comment on the finer points of Southwest living. I reveled in what I thought was other people's ignorance, although I didn't know crap about where I was at that moment.
For privacy's sake, I'll just say that it was near Canada. And that it was green. VERY green.
W
I couldn't understand why this kid kept walking around me in circles. He had definitely mop that same path about five times, even though the floor had been spotless to begin with. I wonder what I looked like at that moment- dark makeup surrounding my eyes that I obstinately refused to take off even when my newfound friend told me point blank that it looked ridiculous, an obscure band t-shirt, and black skinny jeans.
At that moment in time, my 8th grade mind had made the assumption that this style definitely made me look sexy. Well, apparently this boy thought so also. Or maybe New York kids just have a different perspective. Me, I was strictly a Southwest kid. At the mention of cowboys, tumbleweeds, or the dreaded OK Corral, my eyes would shoot sparks and I would feel that it was my duty to educate the poor soul who had made the comment on the finer points of Southwest living. I reveled in what I thought was other people's ignorance, although I didn't know crap about where I was at that moment.
For privacy's sake, I'll just say that it was near Canada. And that it was green. VERY green.
W
