Tuesday

Tuesday was my girlfriend at Colonel White High School. We met in French class on the first day of tenth grade.

Read my posts on Tuesday.







16 thoughts on “Tuesday

  1. […] Tuesday, I wish I could say I was never lonelier than among the idiots in Mrs. Raimey’s class at Colonel White, or at Colonel White in general, but it’s worse here. I’ve never seen so much desolation and idiocy, I’ve never been so alone. I am not bad at making friends, I just hate everybody here. I’m pretty sure they hate me, too. It’s a nice little arrangement we have. I thought there for a while (last year) that I might have a shot at normal, comfortable life but I was silly. The world is foolish or at least between me and the world one of us is foolish and the other one is not. Anyway, there is a big difference. You are the only person I know who would understand this kind of loneliness, everyone else has had it laughing too easy. Have you ever been happy for more than about a minute? If you have tell me how you did it. I think I might be happy if I was an animal. Or something like or as desirable as happy. If I was an animal, and had no thoughts like these and not so much awareness. I tell you I’ve never felt this way before, but I think it might be nice to be dead. Why is there something instead of nothing? I don’t know. Why isn’t there nothing? It would be a lot easier. Can you tell how happy I am? But I don’t care, I don’t know what’s so hot about happiness. The photolab sucks here, I’d take the CW one anyday. It’s impersonal here, huge, and I have to carry around a bunch of chemicals in my bag. I printed pictures there once, and left. Who wants to do stuff like that? It’s no good to print in a public restroom. The only thing I find rational enough to do is write, and writing just separates you from everyone. They think you’re insane. They think you’re antisocial. They think you have no life because you spend your time away from people. I am like a victim of trauma…the only way to make myself sane is to completely and utterly submerge myself in fantasy, in fiction, in a world within my head. I am sad, I am lonely, I am unfulfilled. I hurt, I need something else, something different, something more. What is this thing called life? I’m in computer class right now. They think I’m a Freak in here. Well fuck them I am a Freak. I am not happy with this. I do not like this. I am like a little kid being drug along the baseball grit against his will, digging in my heels and beginning to cry. I am glad that I feel like this…it gives me a way to look at things, a way to understand what is happening. I need to cry here and there’s nobody to cry to, not even a private place for me to cry by myself. I am a little curl rolled up inside myself. What I know to be true for me I do not see displayed in the assumptions of others. I need to be able to live my truth, to be able to roam in my world of possibility. Other people are limited by a greater amount of external routine than I am. They take it to heart and believe that it is carte blanche necessary to pass your classes and respect your teachers even if that means kissing their cruddy ass. And I am a fool, I admit it. I don’t believe in the game…I don’t believe in the way things work. I am guided by internal things, and fuck if I care that they do or do not match up with what other people want. […]

  2. […] Tuesday had drawn him with devil horns coming out of his head. Appropriate. He was carrying a book in one hand and a pencil in the other. She had given him exaggerated Converse high-tops (the shoes were larger than his head) and had even written, in tiny lettering, barely ledgible, “Chuck Taylor” “Converse” “All Stars”. Nearby was a picture of Julian, black trenchcoat-clad, spiraling braids falling before his face. […]

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