U g h

I had to stay after classes today for detention in an overly air-conditioned classroom, with my ass and thighs freezing on my plastic chair, and my head slowly filling with lead, maliciously promising to betray me and fall on the wooden desk. We were supposed to remain in an upright position the entire duration, work studiously, and contribute to the immaculate silence.
I was sat at a desk which had "I <3 RYAN" carved into the side. I nodded my head, agreeing.
The entirety of my discipline, I had attempted to write a poem, and I struggled. I came up with beginnings and middles and endings, but I could never string any part together with another. They didn't fit. I felt as though I was too insincere, or that I really am just that awful of a writer. I wanted to write something pretty.

pretty girls should write 

pretty words

I was using a piece of graph paper I had taken from my friend's binder and I drew faces with a green pen. I had eventually taken to writing the alphabet in cursive, not even completing an ounce of any of the homework that I had to do.
When I finally exited the building and began my journey home on foot, I checked my phone for any messages. The first were from Ryan, telling me to check my e-mail. The second, was from a number I did not recognize, and the message read: I'm really sorry.
I have no idea who that was from or what they were sorry for, but I appreciate the compassion intended for whoever they were trying to send that message to. But I guess this is another experience where I need to learn that my opinion has very little effect or meaning to others. Neither does a text message.

I'm being positively brooding today, and I love it. I'm physically and mentally fatigued, and emotionally incompetent as usual. I suffered to be on the receiving end of a "your people" joke, and I about snapped, yet kept my response to a level, "I'm going to slit your throat." This was lost on the other party, as usual, because I am a comedian, and everything I say is a joke. That doesn't mean that I didn't feel every ounce of wanting to hold him down and press a razor blade against his throat Sweeney Todd style. Of course, I would regret it  later, and I'm not sure I have the credentials to be able to hurt another human and feel no remorse. Nevertheless, I was pissed, as I usually come to be, when a lovely white hand pets my hair or I'm on the end of a racial joke. If only culture's ejaculate could spray its seed in my peers.

So on the list of things to do, I can check my 1984 test off. It wasn't too hard. Also, I got a B- on my AP Euro final, which isn't as credible as most over achievers would perceive it, but I am a professed under achiever, and for me, that was a valiant feat in conquering everything that has happened in Europe since the Bubonic Plague.

As a closing note, my friend and I played "Would You Rather" all day and one of the most memorable scenarios is me finger-fucking Shaquille O'Neal over swimming in John Goodman's waste.
How inspiringly vulgar.

I'll be off now, but I make no promises. I may return with a poem or two.

Cheers