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| Note: The following pieces of writing are the majority of my daily topics that I've written for my English class thus far this year. I'll update relatively frequently. 8.21.01; Grade School It was the first day of school. Mom had just let go of my hand and I was already shaking with fright upon seeing so many strange faces. The familiar smells of my parents were gone… there was no cigarette smoke or aftershave, no perfume or hair oils. It was cold and much, much, much too clean. Like no one had ever been here before this little entourage of first graders. The reek of disinfectant offended my nose and made my 5 year-old stomach twist and turn. Mom turned from in the doorway, smiled and waved. Then she was gone. Now I was even smaller and colder. The last little kid rolled into class, clinging desperately to his mother… the teacher raced up and took the little boy in her arms. I could see her nails biting into the flesh in his sides. “Don’t worry. Your son will be finnnneeee…” Her last word trailed off into a rasping expulsion of gas. I was afraid. Very afraid. The boy’s mother smiled and walked out of the room; by some act of satanic will the door slammed behind her… with not a single soul touching it. The teacher still clung to the little boy… he let out a little squeal of horror when the door slammed but in the same instant his virgin stomach fat was pierced through with the teacher’s nails. His body tensed, then loosened; she quickly spread her arms… as if making as if to bury the class in a gigantic bear hug. The little boy hit the floor. A few of the children in class started crying but the teacher didn’t seem to hear them. She instructed us to take out a piece of paper. All of us were too afraid to move… all except the only person that I knew. My only friend, Ryan Papenek. He started screaming at the top of his lungs… I could hear the vibration of his uvula against his throat… it rattled the windows. Ryan made a dash for the door and made it in scant few seconds. He twisted the knob frantically and I could see from my seat that it was locked. He clung to the knob and whipped around to face the teacher. Tears streamed down his freckled cheeks and a look of pure terror swept over his face. He saw the inevitable, the entire class did. We knew what would happen to poor Ryan before perhaps even he did. The teacher had followed his movements across the room with a look of mild surprise and amusement. Then she quirked her eyebrow and my best friend, my only friend Ryan, stiffened and fell heavily to the floor. It was around this time that I noticed that something was leaking from the ceiling. It looked thick and black and fell in fat drops on the carpeting. After each successive drop the carpet made a faint sucking sound; the pace of the drips grew quicker and quicker until there seemed to be a torrent of this black liquid leaking from the ceiling. By now the entire class was staring bewildered at the cheap corrugated tiles that spanned above our heads. The teacher just watched us. Soon the entire roof was drenched with black… dripping from every square inch. A drop fell on my desk, quickly followed by another. I saw that it wasn’t black but a deep red. Blood was seeping from the ceiling of my first-grade classroom. My mind was already reeling from the past 10 minutes and I soon blacked out. The last thing I remember was my teacher’s high, maniacal laugh that pierced my very soul. 8.22.01; High School Revelations Learned in the Past Four Years Revelation #1: It was fashionable at some point in architectural time to cover ceilings with Spackle that resembled cottage cheese. I still don’t know why spraying that stuff up there might have been trendy. I learned that there’s asbestos in that harmless looking cottage cheese… so now whenever I’m sticking something on my ceiling and some of that cottage cheese stuff settles on my face and hair, I imagine them taking root in my skin and festering with cancerous tumor juices. I also learned that tumors need blood to survive so breast tumors will “anchor” your boob to your chest muscles to have a steady blood intake. So if you have boob tumors your boob can’t move around. Keep that in mind. Guys included. I know that the men in KT’s family are known for breast cancer so keep fondling yourself, boy. Revelation #2: The mind has an amazing capacity for remembered every movie Tim Burton ever made yet magically neglecting all four years of math. All math teachers have an inward passion for rules and the science of explaining but have an outward loathing for high school students. In the case of former football coaches turned math teachers they will try to humiliate as many as possible as often as possible. In the case of all other math teachers they have long since embarked on the road to insanity and the genocide of teenagers. Revelation #3: Smart-ass animated t.v. shows are the best, namely The Simpsons and those including aliens. Newer animated t.v. shows are all crap and one must always stick with the classics. The previous sentence is all you have in common with your grandparents: the clinging to old and shunning of new. Additional examples of classic t.v. shows include but are in no way limited to the following: Ren and Stimpy, Inspector Gadget, Ninja Turtles, Ren and Stimpy and Ren and Stimpy. Japanimation is what is going to take over our preschool television culture so unless you have tapes of the classics, your future children are doomed to Dragon Ball Z re-runs. Revelation #4: All high school relationships should be avoided at all costs. No more need be said on this topic, I’m sure all of you know where I’m coming from. Further along the line of this subject is the obvious necessity of all women to ban together and castrate nearly the entire male population. We’re over populated enough already and they think too much with it for any good to come of a Whole Man. My friend has cause to think that I’m going gay and I don’t really blame him for thinking so. One of my friend’s girly friends called me hot the other day… the doors are swinging wide as we speak. Revelation #5: Any Nazi bastards that stumble anywhere near your personal space should be annihilated before they breed. Their ignorant ideas seem to carry through to their spawn. Telling them off behind their back will change nothing and they’ll still give you hugs in the hallway. Revelation #6: Life is cruel and God goes out of his way to reach his arm through the clouds to squish your self-worth and esteem into the pavement. All of us would be better off running into a Mack truck in the middle of Chandler Boulevard as soon as is humanly possible. Revelation #7: I am full of useless information and all I say should be disregarded. 8.28.01; Parents I dread the day that I breed spawn. My own little version of me with the exception of my reasonably well-balanced mother raising it, I would be raising it. I have far too many psychological problems as it is and just think of what an impact those would make on a soft, impressionable little mind. That’s not even incorporating all the miserable genes I’ve inherited. E.g. alcoholism, depression, suicidal tendencies etc. etc. Not to say that I suffer from all of the above… just all the lovely syndromes that I’m susceptible to, as would my little kid. Someone once pointed out to me that I’m attracted to depressed/wacked out guys. I completely agree. With that record, just think of all the social diseases our kids would have. Just the concept of childbirth is not something I’m prepared to experience. The thought of a uterus, originally the size of a fist, expanding to hold a little human being boggles my mind. I’m not a large person in any respect and I doubt that I would be able to contain another body within the parameters of my skin. Not to mention I lack any kind of leverage to prevent falling on my face all the time. Then there are stretch marks and that’s just weird. Not gross… just weird. What cracks me up is that the only two people that I know that are looking forward to having children are guys. How appropriate. Maybe they wouldn’t be so gung-ho if they had to actually look out for oncoming walls so they don’t “accidentally” run into them and kill the baby. Not that I would do such a thing… just an innocent pointing finger that it’s a LOT cheaper than an abortion. AND you can say it was an accident. Everyone says that they’re going to be a cool parent and be friends with their kids and have in-depth conversations with them about their most profound problems. I scoff. All of you that choose to breed are going to be exactly like your own parents. It’s whom you learn from. If you think that your mom is a total bitch then chances are your kids are going to think the same about you. It’s sad, yes, but more likely than your son/daughter inviting you to their kegger parties. Considering our society has a trend of producing more of ourselves at an alarming rate, I would assume that the majority if not all of the people in this classroom are going to have children. I have just a few suggestions: what bad genes do you have? Would it be possible to totally wipe out depression if pathologically depressed people didn’t breed? Do you have a tendency to kill small animals? Do the small animals that you kill speak English and wear clothes made by OshKosh B’Gosh and did you find them on playgrounds in your local park? There are thousands of children without parents already… wouldn’t you feel better about yourself if you adopted one of those and gave them a decent home instead of creating ever more people to live on this planet? Just some thoughts that fill me with fear and impending doom… 8.29.01; Brothers/Sisters I’ve spent the longest time trying to write this topic. I was aiming for something along the lines of love in general. But then I don’t have anything to go on except bitter personal stories that I don’t want to get into. Then once I sat down and tried to get going on the subject of love I just couldn’t do it. That’s the most depressing part. I can waste two pages of printer paper on teachers killing their students but I can’t talk about love or brotherhood. This made me depressed so I moved on. I thought about talking about my brother, considering that’s what the topic suggests, but that’s too cliché and I’ll bet everyone will be writing about their siblings and heaven forbid that I actually do something as instructed… So instead I’m just going to tell funny stories. When I lived in Oakland, my best friend Jamie and I would hike around on the hillside across the street. There was a pretty sizable amount of acreage up there and sometimes the grass would get kind of tall and dry and become a pretty bad fire hazard. So about once a year the city would hire some people who specialize in this kind of thing to drive over about 100 goats to eat all the grass. Jamie and I, not to mention all the neighborhood kids, would run over and rip out handfuls of grass that was growing outside their little electric fence. (Side note: Cody got my brother to touch the electric fence like 20 times. It was funny) So anyway, once day Jamie and I were holding grass over the fence and while we were involved in some pointfull conversation, I’m sure, a goat got stuck in the fence trying to reach it. Since it’s an electric fence, thus electrified and uncomfortable to roll around in, it started thrashing around and eventually knocked a section of the fence down. When all the other 99 goats saw that the fence was down they hauled their little furry asses to the lush, untrampled, un-pooped-upon vegetation on the other side. By that time, Jamie and I were just staring in horror. We were sooo going to fry for this. So what do we do? We do like every other responsible urban teen would do: we run like we have never run before. We end up hiding in the bushes while the goat guy started yelling stuff in Spanish to the goats to get them back in the fence and worked our way through the vegetation to hook back to my house. It was a cool day. (Side note number 2: when I read this to my brother and got to the part about touching the electric fence 20 times, he laughed and said “ohh yeahhh…” Sigh.) Now that I’m on the subject of stupid stories I can start talking about my brother again, thus tying in with the subject. Yay. My brother has got to have the stupidest entourage of friends. A couple of them are testing their willpowers of steel by trying to stay straightedge for a week. For those of you not familiar with the lingo, straightedge means off alcohol and drugs. I was driving them around at the time when they came up with this idea. They open the doors and climb in and the car got completely clouded with the smell of cologne and weed. I think it’s pretty lame for them to whining about having to stay clean for just a week. I mean come on, I have lived for the most part my entire life clean and you don’t hear me pissing and moaning. I enjoy my brain cells, thank you very much. As can probably be deduced, my brother is a complete moron. As I type these words he shows me the contents of his Kleenex. Sigh. I wish I were an only child. 9.4.01 ; Recreation When did tanbark go out of style? I remember from pre-school on up to elementary school there was tanbark in every school playground. I remember picking splinters out of my toes and fingers and the delicious smell. When it rained and big puddles would form in the playground, all the tanbark would float. Since there were deep grooves beneath the tire swings at Wildwood in Piedmont, every time it would rain there would be gigantic mires of tanbark. A few brave souls would still try to ride the tire swing anyways, despite the pools they precariously swung over, and some would inevitably fall in and have to go home to change clothes. I remember one day in 3rd grade some big bully kid was trying to push me around… then Dylan Williams (I still remember his name) told him to leave me alone. He then said, “if he ever bothers you again, just go like this” and he stuck his middle finger in the air. Being in 3rd grade I had absolutely no idea what this meant so I walked around for the rest of the day staring quietly at my middle finger… wondering what possible connotation it might have. The next day walking to school with Emily, I asked her what “this” meant. She saw my hand and freaked out, “Adriann! Don’t do that!” “Why not? What does it mean?” “I can’t tell you!” but being Emily she told me anyway. It still cracks me up to picture a 7-year-old me walking down a street congested with cars waving the California “howdy.” The last I heard of Dylan Williams, he had gotten expelled from Piedmont Middle School, PMS, for having a bong in his desk. God! All these memories are floating back about Wildwood… how everyone was afraid to go anywhere near the high school because of the hulking high schoolers that would chuck light bulbs at you. True story… I saw the pieces of light bulbs myself. Then there was the tree house that eventually got torn down because little elementary school kids kept kicking holes in the railing. I heard that some kid fell out of it once… And it was right below that tree house that my brother had thought it would be funny to fling a rock at his big sister and, lo and behold, it hit me square in the eye. But no worries, I started to cry and got him in trouble with the principal. Moving back to the original topic… I think tanbark got replaced with those rubber mats sometime around 1996, when I was in 6th grade at Joaquin Miller Elementary School. My friends and I were the hardcore veterans of the school and were far too mature to play on the play structure anyway so when they closed it off to replace the bare cement with rubber mats, we weren’t too fazed. That school cracked me up… I was so scared when I first moved to Oakland… the first day of school I was scared out of my sorry little mind. There were 12-foot fences that ran all around the school and there were no fields or trees to climb on. Everything was cement and metal. Once a year the termites would sprout wings and start pouring out of the buildings, filling the air with disgusting white bugs that you would inhale if you weren’t careful. I don’t really understand why termites might spontaneously grow wings, or if they were termites at all, but that’s what I was told. When it rained, little patches in the portable’s ceiling would swell and start to leak… several students had to change desks so they wouldn’t get dripped on. It was a sad little school but they were some of the best years of my life. In closing, I miss tanbark and if you happen to see my brother around school, feel free to throw a rock in his eye. 9.5.01; Foreign Languages You know that taste that gets stuck in your mouth after a series of kisses? That metallic skin-taste that fills your entire mouth… and the smell of skin covered with kisses lets off soap fragrances and that wet, slightly sour smell? When you’re lying so close to someone, looking in their eyes to be able to see close to every color in the rainbow… light glinting off their forehead and side of their nose. How you can smell their smell in your clothes after they’ve left and you hug yourself one last time as if they were still right there. Then for the next few days and walking around in a crowd, you smell a puff of their smell and you look up for just a moment. Just a moment when you expect to see their form rushing up to take you in their arms. Then you realize that someone else just wears the same deodorant and you miss him even more. How when you want a hug, you can get one. Be instantly covered in him for just a little bit longer. To get his hair in your eyes and your hair in his and know that you’re both too comfortable to do anything about it. When time just melts away for a few hours and you wake up with a kiss and his delicious smell. When you don’t care what your parents are thinking with you and a guy friend locked in your bedroom… what scenes they must be imagining with laughter and screams echoing down the stairs. How tomorrows problems don’t even occur to you… just a craving for one more kiss, one more fingertip on your nose to make you flinch and how there couldn’t be a greater compliment than having them look at you with that look in his eyes. That look in his eyes that you hunger after until you see him again. How nothing tastes as sweet as that hunger and craving… how nothing is a intricate and beautiful as the game you play with him and the game he plays with you. |
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