Saturday, March 30, 2002

slaughter.

Ed sat in class, bored. The clock ticked away the seconds. It threw them at him with disdain. Ed’s head sank deeper into his desk. His meager stare droned at Mr. Warsaw. It had been about an hour since Ed noticed the way the lines of his teachers shirt blurred together. Everything blended into a fantastic watercolor mess. Trig Identities ran into Henry VIII and none of it made any sense. His only mental effort came from imagining the taste of the chalk that Mr. Warsaw scribbled figures with. Its dusty screeches drew and mesmerized Ed. He had never really held chalk before. He had touched it, but he had never really experienced it. He had never felt it chip and powder the insides of his mouth. He had never felt it crunch between his teeth and dust down his parched throat.

The lunch bell rang and the class drained. Ed stayed though. His only concern was that chalk. It was comfortable to concentrate on.

“Ed? Do you have lunch detention?” asked Mr. Warsaw.

Ed was startled, “Uh… um… no.”

“Then please leave. I have papers to grade and I expect to not find you when I come back.” Mr. Warsaw walked out the door, towards the cafeteria.

Ed stared at the empty room, without interest. He didn’t really want to leave. He didn’t want to stay either, but it was easier to do nothing. That way, he could believe, in secret, that he was doing neither.

That felt good.

Ed stood up and walked to the front of the room, eyes fixed on the chalk. Without a thought, he reached down for it. Ed took the stub and placed it in his mouth.

It tasted terrible.
Ed didn’t mind.
It felt terrible.
Ed didn’t mind. His teeth crunched down. He could feel the dust. It flaked back into his throat. It almost gagged him.

“Cool,” Ed thought.

With the chalk still in his mouth, Ed turned and saw a stack of papers on Mr. Warsaw’s desk. It was arranged in the neat piles typical of the classroom. Ed reached over and picked up the white ceramic tea cup where Mr. Warsaw kept his pencils. He moved it to the other side of the desk.
A flash joled down Ed’s spine. It surged through his nervous system and flared at the tips of his fingers. It felt damn good. He stretched up and enjoyed the feeling. Something was different. It was intereresting. Yeah…

Ed picked up a ruler and rotated it 45 degrees. The feeling came back. It encouraged him to do more. He started to move random things back and forth, out of their designated places. Papers were strewen about. Pens were knocked around. Paper clips were scattered.
Then Ed picked up Mr. Warsaw’s cold coffee and dumped it over the desk. The black fluid splashed over papers. It drenched and destroyed all that lay in its path.

A soaked, brown mess remained on the desk. Ink blotted out over drenched papers. A’s, B’s, D’s, and F’s smudged over lines and bled into pools on the desk. All the writing looked the same. It was all ugly.

Ed opened the desk’s drawer and began to pull papers out. They flew into the air and rained about the room. Ed grabbed one page at random and scanned it. The first line read: “How to Make a Peanut Butter Sandwich. By Ed.” In a fit of rage he ripped the page to shreds. He screamed as he tore the fibers over and over and over again.

“What do you think you’re doing, Ed??” Ed turned around to see Mr. Warsaw. His teacher’s face burned in anger. “What the hell are you doing?”

Ed dropped the crumpelled mess into the garbage pail: “Just getting rid of my trash,” Ed said through a mouthfull of broken chalk. He walked toward the door. “You don’t have that right!”

“Neither do you,” Ed mumbelled and walked out the door and down the hall. “Ed! Where are you going?”

Ed continued toward the front doors. “Anywhere else! Somewhere real!”

Mrs. Washburn ran over and asked, “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Warsaw, “But God save his soul. God save us all.” The two were silent. The only audible sound was of Mr. Murphy down the hall, as he scribbled sentence diagrams on his black board.

“Monday, nothing. Tuesday, nothing. Wednesday and Thursday, nothing.”
-The Fugs

Tuesday, March 19, 2002

confused.

i don't know how to talk to people, especially certain people.

i say things and they become unhappy.

i try to be serious, but everyone says i'm fake. they all leave eventually.

don't know what to do anymore. wonder if anyone's ever been able to believe me.

Sunday, March 10, 2002

burn.

ever set a house on fire just to watch it burn?
at first it's beautiful and it makes you think that life isn't all that bad. flames dance around and remind you of your childhood.

but then it hits you. you get burned. the flames gnaw on your inflammable clothes and scorch you. fuck up the right structure of your skin and jack you forever. you'll be a disfigured mess for the rest of your life. fuckers will spit at you and cover their kids' eyes when you come near.

but that's not even so bad until you hear them. yes, them. the voices of the little girls inside burning. they cry... partially because they're being devoured by heat and strangeled by fumes... but also because they'll never see their daddies and mommies again. parents just wake up in the morning to find that the babies that they loved are just...

gone.

and they're never coming back. you killed them. i hate people like you, people like me, people who fuck everything up, people who set fires they can't put out.

it's a quiet burning behind my eyes. feels like they need to close. they're shaking from the strain of being up for days. got cigarette burns all over your body and you know you need to sleep but you can't.

it's the damn screams of the people you burned.

Friday, March 08, 2002

cold.

feeling cold tonight. something's missing. every once and while i begin to think that i know what that is and i reach out for it. but i usually end up grabbing the wrong thing or, when it's the right thing, i second guess myself and lose it. people slip away.

i haven't written anything here for awhile. just thought i'd say something tonight because i feel so weird. nothing interesting to write. i'm not sure if i'm capable of producing stuff. it's not unique to tonight. it's just in general. it's my fault too. no one else is to blame. i've been given every possible oppurtunity, but i just don't care enough to make use of it.

i care about people... but i just don't know how to express that. :(

i know that no one reads this or cares about it, but don't expect to see anything for awhile. i'd far rather lay in the dark and sleep than think. it's just too damn cold.