I walked through my elementary school high today, wearing an orange towel, wrapping the arm of my 3rd-13th grade admirer with the suede side of my leather jacket...admiring the school's bordering hills that were once so treacherous and once so coveted for freedom. I swore that that fence wasn't there before, and in our day, the children did not escape due to highly effective conditioning. He disagreed, and said that no, the fence had always been there. I always try to inflame marvel at the natural ease of brainwashing the young; there was a time when we too were all succeptible. Control of the mind is the finest symptom of maturity.
We walked across the handball courts. I said, that is the handball court. You can tell by the birds eye view of that four layer birthday cake on the cement bricks. He said, do you mean, the bullseyes on the front? I don't think anyone ever actually used them to play. I agreed fully. He finished, they always reminded me of breasts. Oh Vincent, not everything is about women!
We left my elementary school from the other side, enough for me to peak into the 4th-6th grade quad, and see the metallic forcefields hinging my memories together...that time when I was afraid of the kid with extreme adhd who psychologically abused me and made me feel like a freak. It wasn't until 7th grade that I started brushing my teeth.
I let it alone. The past is indeed untouchable. But the girl symbol on the girl's restroom has a very big skirt and only one leg.
I popped a squat in the island tuft of grass dividing the lanes of the faculty parking lot. I lift up my orange towel from the bottom, proud of my ommission of dubloons, and pissed copiously, while a dodge mini van drove by. I did not attempt to hasten the operation.
The last day of my year reminded me that we should all aim for the stars. One shot, one kill.
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not everything is about women, but everything is about breasts.
ReplyDeletewomp womp.