So, at the art school I go to, physicall education is unfortunately a requirement. Since volleyball was the sport of choice at every rehab I've been to, it seemed only natural to choose something I was familiar with, if I had to partake in any athletic activity.
So this morning I trudged myself into the city, and down into the gymnasium of my school, where I changed out of my street clothes, and into my gym shorts and a short sleeved shirt. Though the scabies are now dead, the parasitic bastards have left their mark, and my legs, arms and hands are still covered in dried blood and scabs .I actually chose not to wash my wounds this morning, because I kind of like to exhibit the freakish ravagings of my infestation, especially in a gymnasium filled with a bunch of girls that look like they just walked of the Jersey Shore.
So I leave the lockeroom, fully changed, and lie my bony ass down on the smooth wooden floor while our "coach", reads off the attendance. I kind of like my P.E teacher in all honesty, he has the sort of character that you would expect Robert DeNiro to play, in some movie about a P.E teacher that comes to inspire, and change the lives of under-privelaged, inner citty Highschoolers. However, he's obsessed, like all P.E teachers, with forcing everyone to group up into pairs, to practice their volleyball skills. This presents a problem for myself, as I hate to really ask anyone to be my partner, and of course I ended up standing in a corner, lightly bumping a volley ball to myself for about ten minutes, before he ordered me to join some girls across the gym.
Since I'm shy, I have to options on how I can deal with people that I dont know, when I'm forced to interact with them. I can 1) Be overly friendly and bashfull, or 2) act like a misserable son-of-a-bitch, who hates humanity, and looks like a serial killer. Today I opted for option number two, as like I said above, these were Jersey Shore types, and no matter how nice I acted, I would still send them "creep vibes".
So we continued to do some volleyball excercizes, working on our "bumps", and our serves, both underhand and overhand. Since I suffer from chronic sexual insecurity, I made sure that every time I hit the ball, it was too powerful rather than too weak. At one point I hit the ball insanely hard, and also completely out of bounds (though I'm pretty sure that's not the correct terminology). It wound up stuck in the bleachers. My partner attempted to retrieve the ball, but couldnt hoist herself up enough to get at it. I took this as an opportunity to display my masculinity, so I ran up to the bleacher's, kicked off it, and proppeled myself upwards, and scrambled for a moment before I secured myself safely on top, and got the ball. My performance was evidently pretty impressive, or at least strange, since I saw a few spectators below rasing eyebrows, but i just threw the ball down like it wasn't a big deal. "yeah, im hot shit, what of it?"
Then during the last half hour of class, the coach split us into teams, and we played real games. At first I tried my best, and landed a few points. Each time I laid my hands on that ball and brought it over the net, I felt an immense pride build up inside of me, but it didnt last long. After the first ten points or so were scored, I succeded in fucking up several different plays. Actually, to be quite honest, it wasn't all my fault, in fact, I was probably the best player on my team. The thing is though, im NOT a team player. The errors that plagued me for the rest of the class were all situations in which the ball was heading in a questionable spot, where it could have easily been mine to hit, or the girl next to me or behind me. You're supposed to say something along the lines of "I got it", to let your team mates know, so they back off, and avoid ramming into you, or eachother. However, I've always hated raising my voice, especially in a situation that is not serious (like a game of volleyball), so I decided to just let the other people hit it, and zone out. One of the girls, a big snarling beast of a thing, started to get pretty bitchy with my apathy and poor sportsmanship. She said something like "move it!", which totally rubbed me the wrong way. Instead of getting back into the game however, I decided to slack off even more, and just stood there, scratching at one of the scabs on my arm until it tore off and started bleeding. Luckily the game ended shortely thereafter, but it left a sour taste in my mouth.
I left the gym and immediately went outside to smoke a ciggarette in the cold rain, and put on Iggy Pop and the Stooges, to enhance my feelings of alienation and misanthropy. I decided about halfway through the second track ''Gimme Danger", to walk around the block, because I was getting paranoid that I might run into someone I knew.
So I'm walking around the block, under this shitty scaffolding, smoking a shitty rolled ciggarette, and I see this staggering homeless guy, who's stopping everyone in front of me, asking for change. I approach him, and take out my earphones to see what he want's, and surprisingly, all he asks me is what music I'm listening to. I was kind of reluctant to say "the Stooges", as I had already deemed this poor, wretched sould to be completely ignorant. However I said fuck it, the guy wants to talk to me, so I told him, "It's Iggy Pop man, Iggy and the stooges."
The guy swayed back and forth, and repeated "Iggy Pop" several times, and then informed me that he was black, to which I said, "that's cool with me." Then he said, "Iggy Pop. Iggy Pop from Detroit". I said, yeah, that's right. He said, "Iggy Pop and the Stooges?" I started laughing and said "Yeah man, you got it, you like them?". He raised his hand and gave me a high five, and for the next hour we sat there talking about The Stooges, David Bowie, Lou Reed, Bauhaus, Basquiat, some obscure architect I've never heard of, Dave Mustaine from Megadeth, Bad Brains, Choking Victim, Minor Threat, and shit, the list just went on and on. Our conversation ended with him playing air guitar while he sung The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes", and I was just cracking up. After he finished his air guitar solo, we shook hands, and headed off into the sunset
So this morning I trudged myself into the city, and down into the gymnasium of my school, where I changed out of my street clothes, and into my gym shorts and a short sleeved shirt. Though the scabies are now dead, the parasitic bastards have left their mark, and my legs, arms and hands are still covered in dried blood and scabs .I actually chose not to wash my wounds this morning, because I kind of like to exhibit the freakish ravagings of my infestation, especially in a gymnasium filled with a bunch of girls that look like they just walked of the Jersey Shore.
So I leave the lockeroom, fully changed, and lie my bony ass down on the smooth wooden floor while our "coach", reads off the attendance. I kind of like my P.E teacher in all honesty, he has the sort of character that you would expect Robert DeNiro to play, in some movie about a P.E teacher that comes to inspire, and change the lives of under-privelaged, inner citty Highschoolers. However, he's obsessed, like all P.E teachers, with forcing everyone to group up into pairs, to practice their volleyball skills. This presents a problem for myself, as I hate to really ask anyone to be my partner, and of course I ended up standing in a corner, lightly bumping a volley ball to myself for about ten minutes, before he ordered me to join some girls across the gym.
Since I'm shy, I have to options on how I can deal with people that I dont know, when I'm forced to interact with them. I can 1) Be overly friendly and bashfull, or 2) act like a misserable son-of-a-bitch, who hates humanity, and looks like a serial killer. Today I opted for option number two, as like I said above, these were Jersey Shore types, and no matter how nice I acted, I would still send them "creep vibes".
So we continued to do some volleyball excercizes, working on our "bumps", and our serves, both underhand and overhand. Since I suffer from chronic sexual insecurity, I made sure that every time I hit the ball, it was too powerful rather than too weak. At one point I hit the ball insanely hard, and also completely out of bounds (though I'm pretty sure that's not the correct terminology). It wound up stuck in the bleachers. My partner attempted to retrieve the ball, but couldnt hoist herself up enough to get at it. I took this as an opportunity to display my masculinity, so I ran up to the bleacher's, kicked off it, and proppeled myself upwards, and scrambled for a moment before I secured myself safely on top, and got the ball. My performance was evidently pretty impressive, or at least strange, since I saw a few spectators below rasing eyebrows, but i just threw the ball down like it wasn't a big deal. "yeah, im hot shit, what of it?"
Then during the last half hour of class, the coach split us into teams, and we played real games. At first I tried my best, and landed a few points. Each time I laid my hands on that ball and brought it over the net, I felt an immense pride build up inside of me, but it didnt last long. After the first ten points or so were scored, I succeded in fucking up several different plays. Actually, to be quite honest, it wasn't all my fault, in fact, I was probably the best player on my team. The thing is though, im NOT a team player. The errors that plagued me for the rest of the class were all situations in which the ball was heading in a questionable spot, where it could have easily been mine to hit, or the girl next to me or behind me. You're supposed to say something along the lines of "I got it", to let your team mates know, so they back off, and avoid ramming into you, or eachother. However, I've always hated raising my voice, especially in a situation that is not serious (like a game of volleyball), so I decided to just let the other people hit it, and zone out. One of the girls, a big snarling beast of a thing, started to get pretty bitchy with my apathy and poor sportsmanship. She said something like "move it!", which totally rubbed me the wrong way. Instead of getting back into the game however, I decided to slack off even more, and just stood there, scratching at one of the scabs on my arm until it tore off and started bleeding. Luckily the game ended shortely thereafter, but it left a sour taste in my mouth.
I left the gym and immediately went outside to smoke a ciggarette in the cold rain, and put on Iggy Pop and the Stooges, to enhance my feelings of alienation and misanthropy. I decided about halfway through the second track ''Gimme Danger", to walk around the block, because I was getting paranoid that I might run into someone I knew.
So I'm walking around the block, under this shitty scaffolding, smoking a shitty rolled ciggarette, and I see this staggering homeless guy, who's stopping everyone in front of me, asking for change. I approach him, and take out my earphones to see what he want's, and surprisingly, all he asks me is what music I'm listening to. I was kind of reluctant to say "the Stooges", as I had already deemed this poor, wretched sould to be completely ignorant. However I said fuck it, the guy wants to talk to me, so I told him, "It's Iggy Pop man, Iggy and the stooges."
The guy swayed back and forth, and repeated "Iggy Pop" several times, and then informed me that he was black, to which I said, "that's cool with me." Then he said, "Iggy Pop. Iggy Pop from Detroit". I said, yeah, that's right. He said, "Iggy Pop and the Stooges?" I started laughing and said "Yeah man, you got it, you like them?". He raised his hand and gave me a high five, and for the next hour we sat there talking about The Stooges, David Bowie, Lou Reed, Bauhaus, Basquiat, some obscure architect I've never heard of, Dave Mustaine from Megadeth, Bad Brains, Choking Victim, Minor Threat, and shit, the list just went on and on. Our conversation ended with him playing air guitar while he sung The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes", and I was just cracking up. After he finished his air guitar solo, we shook hands, and headed off into the sunset
