mother: are you being promiscuous?
me: [blank stare]
mother: you know i just worry about you, right? if you're being promiscuous i just need to know so you can be taken care of.
me: [blank stare]...mom. im friends with lots of guys, mom.
mother: i KNOW you're friends with lots of guys. i just want to be sure you're taking care of yourself.
me: mom. i am FRIENDS with guys because i don't like girls. girls are bitches. im not having sex with them.
mom: if you suddenly decide to become promiscuous, just tell me. it could be tragic, you know. like a play. you need to be taken care of. just tell me.
me: [blank stare] [begin laughter]
mom: don't laugh.
me: [more laughter]

p.s. i don't have to go to beauty school after all.

there are so many things i wish i could say to you, but i know i cannot. i mean i could, but why would i want to jeopardize our friendship for my reckless emotions? it is hard enough for me to keep my feelings in check. what would i do if we could not even be friends? you are on of the few people who can make me happy. one of the few who can make me feel worth something. you can also make me feel worthless. you ignoring me is one of the most painful things i have ever felt. i wish it did not hurt this much. everything would be so much easier if it did not. i am not entirely sure what to think when you ignore me in public but pay so much attention to me otherwise. it is not public as a whole, i have found. it is just certain people around whom you refuse to acknowledge my existence. i could care less about her. we are still friends, and you still suck for acting like i am not even around. i know i am not everything she has always been to you, and i do not want to be. at all. i just want to know what you are thinking. what you were thinking. i want to know if i am completely crazy for thinking these things about you. for thinking you might think these things too. even if it is only a bit. i want to know even if you do not feel it. i want to get over you. at times, i wish i had never met you. i think things would be much easier. it is easier to let go when you never even had something. part of me wants to think i was better off watching you from afar, remaining in my sphere of existence and you in yours. but the bigger part of me knows that i have never met someone quite like you. well, i have, but you make up for what he lacked. it is unfortunate. i wish you did not. i wish i wish i wish. i have no fucking clue what i wish. i wish i did not have this knot in my throat or this pain in my chest. i wish my eyes were not throbbing. i wish you were mine. but would i be happy? do you mean all the things you say when we talk about the future and our secrets and the situations that we wish would be? would you really like to spend so much time alone with me? would really like to remember me forever? how the hell should i know? should i even believe you? you are a fucking charmer. you seek attention. but you also maintain a measure of sincerity. which parts are sincere? again, how the hell should i know? there are a million other girls who are prettier, smarter, funnier, happier than i am. they adore you and you would adore them. you have one who does already. so where does that leave me? i am still confused. i still wish you would choose me. it is almost like applying to college. you hope you have something that everyone else does not. something that sets you apart. pick me. pick me. you do not need to pick me. just make me smile one last time and disappear. i will be fine. just make me smile. i think you would be upset if you knew i cried over you. you do not like crying. you say you cannot handle crying. i think it makes you sad to see other people being sad. i do not want you to know that i am sad. i do not want you to have any idea about any of this. i just want it to be over. i just want it to go away. but i do not know if i could deal with you going away.

I sit here in the warm, dim gray between the toilet and the shower. Saline tears burn the deep cracks in my lips. What of my being so offends you? Why do my human errs lead to your rage? How do I fix myself to make you happy? What do I do?
I should not have said I wanted the brownie. Mistake number one—my selfishness. I should not have put the box back on the counter. Mistake number two—my thoughtlessness. I should have told him. Mistake number three—my loss of words. I should have just eaten the brownie. No. I should have just let him eat it in the first place. It was just a brownie.
Of these occurrences, this one in particular wounds me most deeply. A sharp pain of misunderstanding and childlike innocence matches that of the deep line in my skin. I often feign my lack of comprehension, mentally retracing a series of minor mishaps and events leading up to the grand finale. But the cause of this truly eludes me.
My mind steps back slowly one, two, twenty steps. It gropes blindly in the shadows of memory, hoping for a single hand to lead it out of this confusing tangle of gray matter. The search ends in vain, my mind caught within its own treacherous confines. I resign myself to this warm, dim gray once again.
I feel my puffy eyes beneath the sticky taughtness of my dried tears. Staring ahead, seeing nothing but the shiny tunnel of yellow through my imperfect vision, i hear your voices drift to me down the hall. You have moved on. Words of work and the hectic professional life carry the conversation. Not your work. Mom’s work. What you do with your time, I know not, yet i still read inadequacy when i read the words written in your eyes. My inadequacy. My imperfection. I wonder if Jews and cripples felt the same when they saw Hitler?
A pain shoots through my wrist, so I pause. Leaning my head against my tucked knees, I inhale the distinct smell of graphite and paper. I decipher the scent of an old perfume I once wore, mingled with a faint odor of burning wood and cigarette smoke. These pages have borne witness to me at my best and at my worst. Unfortunately, they have seen more of my worst. This has been one intense ride. And so it continues to be.
I rise from my space on the floor, feeling suddenly vulnerable and unsteady on my feet. I make a crude mental note as i notice the distinctive print my butt has left on the small rug. I stare at my reflection in the bluish light that has morphed the dim gray. Examining my body, I take in the baby fat around my tummy and thighs that I cannot seem to lose. The widening of my hips. The transition from a lean, muscular upper body to a soft, round waist. I look intently upon my face, seeing the dark circles and deep lines etched around my eyes. I notice an aged quality in their depths, weariness, perhaps, which i wonder whether others perceive. They are my father’s eyes.
Exhausted by my own image, I silently slip across the hall.

so i've got an uber crush. i really love how i get myself into this shit. really i do. i think that he's out of my league physically, but he seems interested so far. possibly i can overcome my feelings of him being too good looking for me? oooh the drama.

most amazing conversation everrrr

Madison is piMp: in some people's eyes, i almost count as a man...
Cthad29: ive still seen no proof
Madison is piMp: [coughyoujamesleeglenncough]
Madison is piMp: WELL I DON'T HAVE A PENIS THAT'S FOR DAMN SURE
Cthad29: not that ive seen
Madison is piMp: and you won't ever b/c it doesn't exist
Madison is piMp: i have these pretty tight dance pants that i think fairly prove that i am not a man, but lee says it doesn't count
Madison is piMp: although i disagree
Cthad29: you could be tucking it
Cthad29: or it oculd be small
Cthad29: haha, beth has a small wang
Madison is piMp: excuse me, but i woudl NOT have a small penis
Cthad29: too bad oyu do
Madison is piMp: if i did have one, which i maintain that i do not, it would not be small
Madison is piMp: anyway...it'd be BIGGER THAN YOURS...
Madison is piMp: but i suppose that isn't saying much...
Cthad29: hey youve never seen mine, i could have a sweet little va j j for all you know
Madison is piMp: i'm going to trust that you don't
Madison is piMp: dude...if you had one...i'd laugh so hard
Madison is piMp: you with a vagina. that's like...me with a penis.
Madison is piMp: it's hilarious!
Cthad29: well i find you pretty hilarious, so what does that mean
Madison is piMp: that's circular reasoning, which is false
Madison is piMp: fallacious (fallatious?) statement!
Madison is piMp: because if you argued that, i would say that i find you pretty hilarious, and that would mean that you have a vag. and do you?
Cthad29: for all you know i might
Madison is piMp: do you?
Madison is piMp: that's a direct question.
Cthad29: i can neither confirm nor deny the penis or vagina situation
Madison is piMp: i'll just go up to you and grab your balls haha
Madison is piMp: oooh god
Madison is piMp: no i would not
Cthad29: yea bad choice, ive heard the vagina is a sensitive area
Madison is piMp: so you're saying that you have a vagina?
Cthad29: im saying for all you know i might
Cthad29: and for all i know you have a tiny wang
Madison is piMp: well that's the point. i'm going to find out.
Cthad29: i can choose to belive whatever i want
Cthad29: and until i see extensive proof
Cthad29: you haev a tiny wang
Madison is piMp: i don't think i will ever personally prove to you that i do not indeed have a tiny wang, so i'll let you believe that if you'd like
Cthad29: yes sir
Madison is piMp: and i'll believe that you have a vagina
Cthad29: whatever floats your boat, i love america
Madison is piMp: hahaha
Madison is piMp: ooh yeah
Cthad29: so what youre saying is
Cthad29: id have to get oyu really drunk
Madison is piMp: are you trying to premeditatively take advantage of me?
Cthad29: im offereing, a a friend ,to get you really drunk
Madison is piMp: right
Madison is piMp: right
Madison is piMp: hey do you know what would be even more hilarious than you with a vagina?
Madison is piMp: you with a very tiny wang. haha!
Cthad29: its not the size of the boat its how you use it
Madison is piMp: so i've heard
Madison is piMp: but no matter how many times you use that gay little phrase, when it comes down to it, size really does matter.
Madison is piMp: nice women lie
Cthad29: tell that to your mom cause she sure was howlin last night
Madison is piMp: oh yeah she told me about that...she says it sucked, by the way
Cthad29: she told me she would lie to you so as not to hurt your feelings
Madison is piMp: are you sure that wasn't your mom?
Cthad29: yea, i'd recognize your moms obscene tat on the inner thigh anywhere
Madison is piMp: yeah that's my dad...
Madison is piMp: should have said grandma. DAMNIT!
Madison is piMp: that was a note to self, by the way
Madison is piMp: haha
Cthad29: yea i gathered
Cthad29: we could go on liek this for hours couldn't we
Madison is piMp: haha yeah probably
Madison is piMp: haha
Madison is piMp: i'm laughing so hard it's retarded
Madison is piMp: *i feel retarded
Cthad29: ha, i'm glad i can at least do that
Madison is piMp: i was laughing at myself.
Cthad29: because oyu know ive discovered your secret
Madison is piMp: damnit! i've got it all figured out now you pervert!
Madison is piMp: you think i have a penis, and that's why you want to get me drunk! so you can take advantage of me and try to have gay sex!
Madison is piMp: i knew it.
Madison is piMp: freak.
Cthad29: who said anything about taking advantage of oyu, i just want you to flash a crowd of people without knowing it
Madison is piMp: flash my crotch?
Cthad29: whatever floats your boat
Cthad29: i wasthinking maybe ou put on a trench coat with nothing under it
Madison is piMp: i don't think you'll ever see me really drunk
Madison is piMp: or wearing a trenchcoat w/nothing under it
Madison is piMp: helllooo lame porn
Cthad29: too bad its already in the works
Madison is piMp: yeah?

i do not care. i simply do not care. perhaps i am just off to a bad start? i really don’t think that is it, actually. i do not think that is the case at all. i suppose i have just gotten to the point of reality. i have realized that high school is doing nothing for me. it is rather depressing, really, if one considers the amount of time and effort, the attention and detail that has been invested in this cheap pageantry. it all sickens me.

i take nothing from the exaltation of skill and talent, this parade ground for child prodigies. the spit out numbers, produced by computers and mechanically recited. dates, algorithms, prostituted imitations of the great languages. english, ever evolving, lays dying in its own wasteland, reduced to child’s play as the number crunchers take the lead, their infallible answers an assurance to the drug-fed breed that is the new generation.
we’re failing, but you cannot see it. no one is made so painfully aware of the falling sensation. no one even stirs at the thought. morphine addicts with a fixation for perfection, we are numb to truth. perception is reality, so says Locke, and we perceive the plastic beauty, not the raw pain.

i love to learn but am disgusted by my options. high school is only the best four years of your life if you do not give a damn about ranking and academic devotion. how is it that i have become caught in this high strung game, training to be a well behaved show monkey? she reads! she writes! she does arithmetic! by god, sometimes she even thinks! oh, the small miracles of mankind.

call me a heretic, but i think this is all complete bullshit. when did knowledge mean knowing more than the next person? when did education become a competition? i miss learning for the enjoyment of learning. there is no fun in this brainwashing disguised as the american education system. standardization is the bane of successful education.

school is bullshit. grading systems are bullshit. ranking is bullshit. i am no bitter, low totem speaking. i have been shoved into this frenzy because i am intelligent. i have a capacity for knowledge, a higher level of understanding. then why do i not “succeed?” i do not knock myself to the ground, headed straight for a burnout because i do not see the merit. for this stress and labor, what shall i win? what will be my gain? i take little satisfaction from an A paper. chewed up and spat out. i earn nothing.

high school is but an insignificant occurrence in life’s grander scheme, a blip on the map of eternity. for some, high school is definitive in the mind’s eye, but it has no real value. we learn to be dependent, only to be thrust into a world require self sufficiency.

the formal education itself is minor. from high school, i have taken experience and inspiration, all created by the individual. little knowledge will follow me from this place, this institution that breeds failure. i will neither be able to solve pi from four years of mathemetics, nor will i be able to speak spanish from years of making art projects. this is trivial pursuit at its finest.

here's an essay for you kids. i like feedback. let me know. and family, yes, i know there may be some exaggerations. i was young. i'm going with what i remember.

Keith Wears Nathan’s Dress

Peering across the vast expanse of melded vinyl, I could not help but stare. Those perfect, white rows of carefully crafted plastic, those perfect white rows capable of ripping flesh from bone just sat there.

My first four years of life whiled away in relative disillusion and childlike bliss. I knew only what I had thus far experienced, which, as I later found out, was not quite the standard procedure of orthodox American life. Though I remained completely unaware of any discrepancy in my rearing, this one defining moment at my grandmother’s kitchen table changed everything. I had my first epiphany.

From my oversized chair at the far end of the table, I casually observed, as is my natural tendency, removing myself from the melee of old men and black coffee. The voices chattered, the coffee cups clattered, and for the first time in my premature life, I realized the abnormality of dentures on the dinner table.

My grandfather hulks above me in my memory. A man of almost seven feet (or so he seemed) and lanky as swaying tree limbs, I did not often chance to see above his knees. Seated in his green, vinyl-upholstered chair, unmatched from the others at the wooden table, was one of the few conditions under which I could observe the upper half of his person. My sparsely haired baby’s head closely resembled his balding, geriatric head, sans bifocals and five o’clock shadow. People like to say I resemble my mother, but the evidence is undeniable; my face is purely paternal.

He was a man of his own will who religiously chose not to attend church but also acted as the host of a Sunday morning, post-mass coffee and biscuit ritual, a gathering of neatly dressed men with snowy hair who collected social security checks. Devout in his untraditional ways, he gained a respect from others that he begrudgingly lost with his ever-increasing age and what some would call senility. I prefer tenacity.

“What in the hell were you thinking, Dad?” our parents angrily demanded. “They don’t have on coats. Half of them don’t have on shoes. Why didn’t you tell someone you were taking them?”

Playing in the yard, wet grass chill under our feet, we jumped at the sight of Paw Paw driving up in his old Chevy pickup. Bored as we children were by the dull post-holiday denouement, he loaded us all into the truck’s cold bed and sped away. We were just going for a little ride.

“Faster! Faster!” the boys yelled, and faster and faster we went, zooming around the curvaceous back roads of the Louisiana flatlands. My small body clung to the dirty truck sides, both terrified and enlivened by the thrill of the ride. Having had little perception of time’s passage, the ride seemed an eternity, though it may have only lasted an hour. When we returned to the safety of our front yard once more, the parents fumed, scared to wit’s end by their disappearing progeny.

“What in the hell were you think, Dad?”
Irresponsible. Too old. Out of his mind. The same things they would later say when he sold a fortune’s worth of livestock, crashed his truck, wasted away from four packs a day.

I know now his faults, but as a child, I was both blinded by his impressive humanity and enlightened by his eye-opening idiosyncrasies. He surprised me with small candies, sugar-free for his diabetes, as well as cordials wrapped in shiny foil, though I disliked both chocolate and cherries at that age. He conversed at length with his imaginary friend Nathan, a character whom we later learned was a byproduct of his manic depression. He taught me the finer points, incidentally, of living life on one’s own terms.

He sat behind the house with his old transistor radio, the dial flicked permanently to the grainy sounds of Zydeco, a cigarette in hand, burning to the filter. He sat alone more often than not, his aging white Stetson propped low over his eyes, the shiny snaps of his cotton shirt partially open to reveal his softly sagging undershirt. He sat alone, but he always spoke.

“The damn drillin’ they’re doin’ across tha street’s driving me crazy. Keeps me up all night...yeah, yeah...he told me tha same thing yestaday...they betta find some all fa all that drillin’ they doin’ ova there...”

I always wondered to whom he spoke, but I never questioned his actions. We all knew Nathan. He was one of the inexplicable characteristics my grandfather had, yet no one discussed his habit until many years later. Nathan became the inside joke that was not really much of a joke. He was as much a part of my grandfather as his pale skin or baby blue eyes.

When I heard the news, I cried briefly, almost half heartedly, as I have come to realize is my initial and compulsory reaction to death. His funeral was a gathering of no small attendance. Though some said he was crazy in his old age, all revered him. My grandfather did not live to suit the expectations of others but to suit his own means. His uninhibited devotion to a life lived candidly gives me the confidence to remain deviant from the standard. A host bold enough to set his dentures on the table during meals, I can only hope to be such a brave and honest soul as my grandfather.