Like the first day of jr. high, when my math teacher enticed good grades with “donut Fridays”, this seems incredibly immature and kind of insulting to the intelligent part of my atrophied brain. But, yeah, I guess we’re all gonna graduate in like two weeks and this year of high school’s been the easiest and, to be honest, kind of a joke of an education. I did like reading The Stranger though—it kinda spoke to me, kinda comforted my nihilistic and depressive tendencies, which I’ve been rather deep into the past year or so. So, I guess playing a little pick-up game of what’s easiest described as a bounce-the-ball-to-each-other-while-we-all-stand-in-a-circle type of thing fits right in with these breezy and hazy last couple weeks.
It’s an idiotically simple sport, but everyone seems to be finding it amusing, if a bit childish. I wonder if Freddy wants to go in on a half-eighth before he goes to work. Should I ask him now, or wait? He’s standing two bodies over to my right, next to that petite little French exchange-student—God I adore her, I could marry just her forearms, those perfect elongated muscles leading to her plain-nailed hands—and now she’s holding the handball which reminds me of the color of Clifford the Dog from those old bedtime books. I think I’ll wait. Besides, there’s only about fifteen left ‘til 3:00, and the weather is fucking nice, and I’ve got half a J from my lunchtime smoke.
The fresh spring air reminds me of sophomore year, when C. was still into me, before she tore me up, and I was, like, in love. And I can still feel that strange tingle now, when I remember the better times, as it were, as the temperate May air blows down this service road, as we stand behind the classroom, and the feeling shoots from the bottom of my stomach, all the way up thru my diaphragm, and then blooms in my lungs and spritzes out my alveoli. Could I love France like I loved C.? Like the way I still love her?
Shit—Ms. Goff is staring at me with those seductive-in-a-cute-way, yet still-kind-of-suspicious eyes. She must know I’m high again, she’s caught me before—and oh crap, I just smirked at her instead of smiling soberly, and I should know by now that the copious and blinding amounts of Visine I pour into my eyes barely even work anymore, and I’ve most likely got that one-eye-half-opened thing going on, which always gets me busted. She cracks a smile though. She’s standing almost diametrically across from me, the sun showing her tiny bleached facial hairs, and she mouths the words “I know” and geeze, I’m so freaking shy and I just look down, embarrassed and blushing. I know she’s just teasing, but I can’t help but feel like I’m floundering.
Someone just tossed me the ball and I’ll try to put on a wry smile and show some sarcastic excitement; but I realize I’m not faking anything anymore—I’m starting to enjoy the mindless and giddy thrill of the game. I see everyone around me is getting bored though, and they’re checking their watches, turning back towards the quad to see if any other students are out yet—and I don’t want this to end, this full-circle from kindergarten yard-games, to high school weightiness, and back to fever-less, lust-less bliss —and I’m not bored at all.
And I realize that I am a very simple person, and I think of Mersault, and how much he enjoyed his coffee and milk.
It’s an idiotically simple sport, but everyone seems to be finding it amusing, if a bit childish. I wonder if Freddy wants to go in on a half-eighth before he goes to work. Should I ask him now, or wait? He’s standing two bodies over to my right, next to that petite little French exchange-student—God I adore her, I could marry just her forearms, those perfect elongated muscles leading to her plain-nailed hands—and now she’s holding the handball which reminds me of the color of Clifford the Dog from those old bedtime books. I think I’ll wait. Besides, there’s only about fifteen left ‘til 3:00, and the weather is fucking nice, and I’ve got half a J from my lunchtime smoke.
The fresh spring air reminds me of sophomore year, when C. was still into me, before she tore me up, and I was, like, in love. And I can still feel that strange tingle now, when I remember the better times, as it were, as the temperate May air blows down this service road, as we stand behind the classroom, and the feeling shoots from the bottom of my stomach, all the way up thru my diaphragm, and then blooms in my lungs and spritzes out my alveoli. Could I love France like I loved C.? Like the way I still love her?
Shit—Ms. Goff is staring at me with those seductive-in-a-cute-way, yet still-kind-of-suspicious eyes. She must know I’m high again, she’s caught me before—and oh crap, I just smirked at her instead of smiling soberly, and I should know by now that the copious and blinding amounts of Visine I pour into my eyes barely even work anymore, and I’ve most likely got that one-eye-half-opened thing going on, which always gets me busted. She cracks a smile though. She’s standing almost diametrically across from me, the sun showing her tiny bleached facial hairs, and she mouths the words “I know” and geeze, I’m so freaking shy and I just look down, embarrassed and blushing. I know she’s just teasing, but I can’t help but feel like I’m floundering.
Someone just tossed me the ball and I’ll try to put on a wry smile and show some sarcastic excitement; but I realize I’m not faking anything anymore—I’m starting to enjoy the mindless and giddy thrill of the game. I see everyone around me is getting bored though, and they’re checking their watches, turning back towards the quad to see if any other students are out yet—and I don’t want this to end, this full-circle from kindergarten yard-games, to high school weightiness, and back to fever-less, lust-less bliss —and I’m not bored at all.
And I realize that I am a very simple person, and I think of Mersault, and how much he enjoyed his coffee and milk.
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