Freshest Fear

Today, I discovered Gizoogle. Here's a taste of what it does. I laughed endlessly at this.

I think mah freshest fear– muthafuckin, probably tha freshest fear among teenagers n' lil' adults– is this: I don’t wanna turn tha fuck into mah muthafathas. Most notably, mah mutha. I wanna know that I’ll be able ta outgrow tha childhood fears her ass inflicted on me.

I was a hella rationizzle child. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I rarely had tantrums based on emotions. When I wasn’t allowed some shit, tha straight-up original gangsta time I would be upset yo, but sequentially I would just accept it, straight-up takin ta heart dat there was probably a phat reason dat I was bein denied some shit. I would often hear, as nuff lil pimps do, dat I’d ‘understand when I’m olda’ and ‘you’ll give props ta mah crazy ass later’. Now dat I’m a grown adult, livin hours from mah muthafathas n' relyin on mah own hood game, I can definitely say dat a shitload of tha thangs I wasn’t allowed ta do have helped me become a mo' patient, frugal, comhorny person. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. For nuff other circumstizzles, I can Kool & Tha Gangly say dat I was royally fucked over, n' I’m just now fuckin wit tha cheezy-ass n' hood consequencez of holla'd fuckery.

 My fuckin mutha n' I is locked up in a rough relationshizzle, based mainly on cheezy-ass need n' corrupted by our fundamental differences. I ludd her, n' her ass luddz me. Our thugged-out asses both need each other fo' tha same thang: a strong playashizzle, which her ass n' I both lack (to some degree) up in our hood lives. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch comes ta mah crazy ass when her ass needz support, some muthafucka ta confide in, and some muthafucka just ta chat wit bout meaningless thangs. I call her fo' tha same reasons, cuz we’re hoes, n' that’s some shiznit our crazy-ass asses need. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I didn’t have a traditionizzle ‘best playa’ relationshizzle wit every last muthafuckin muthafucka growin up. I generally have been playaz wit only 3 gangstas at a time fo' most of mah life, not counting pimps (Tori, Aubrey, Hillary; Hillary, Aubrey, Gina; Hillary, Gina, Alex). But until recently, none of em had ever straight-up filled dat role. One or more was always leavin mah crazy ass behind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And I don’t mean not gettin along wit me all tha time, cuz that’s part of havin a dopest playa— they just didn’t care enough ta wanna include mah crazy ass up in they lives fo' realz. And I’ve heard mah mutha tell me tha same stupid-ass muthafuckin thang bout tha gangstas up in her life. I would try n' help her, tellin her it’s all up in her control, n' dat her ass just needz ta boost her confidence fo' realz. And I’d git frustrated, hearin her response of ‘they just don’t want me’. But as I take a step back, I realize dat I’m up in tha same stupid-ass pattern. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I can’t think of a single muthafuckin thang her ass did ta impress her hood fears on me, it just kind of happened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But I can’t go ta parties. I can’t rap ta strangers. I don’t know how tha fuck ta make playaz on mah own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. My fuckin hood ghetto has revolved around playaz of playas, n' goin ta college felt like bein stranded.

I often wonder how my thuglife would have been different if I hadn’t had mah allergies. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes I think dat maybe if I had been born a normal kid, mah mutha wouldn’t have been so dominatinly protectizzle of me. I wouldn’t have been excluded from birthday partizzles n' field trips. I would’ve been allowed ta explore mah own interests, my own strengths n' weaknesses fo' realz. A lil taste of independence then would’ve done wondaz fo' mah crazy ass now, nahmeean, biatch?

My fuckin mutha didn’t like ta punish mah crazy ass up in tha traditionizzle ways when I disobeyed her, like grounding. Biatch enforced what tha fuck ended up bein a much mo' effectizzle preventative strategy—she would pound mah head wit storiez of dirtnap n' kidnapping, rape and murder, every last muthafuckin time I axed ta do sometime her ass considered unsafe. Instead of the traditionizzle ‘cuz I holla'd so’, her ass chose ‘cuz you’ll probably die’. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She would make up statistics ta make her point, which lead ta a unrealistic view of danger up in everydizzle activities, which is some shiznit I’m still tryin ta shake. Da notion dat ‘danger was everywhere’ seeped tha fuck into every last muthafuckin corna of mah psyche. I didn’t expec' ta live tha fuck into mah 20s, which, as I came ta understand later, is not a normal muthafuckin thang fo' a lil pimp ta expect.

            Last night, I watched Da Importizzle of Bein Earnest as I painted some furniture. I wasn’t payin too much attention yo, but one line caught mah ear: “All dem hoes become like they muthas. That is they tragedy.” I immediately became terrified at the prospect.

            Recently, my muthafathas moved ta another state fo' realz. And by recently, I mean 3 days ago. It took one night fo' mah mom ta throw a fit n' demand they move back. My fuckin poor dad (with whom I’ve always sympathized) obliged, saying, “It’s aiiight. We’ll try again up in a couple years,” all tha while hearin mah mutha yell up in tha background “I’m never goin back there.” Afta a rap from her sister, they managed ta git back down there n' move on wit they plans. My fuckin mutha confessed ta both mah sister and I dat her ass was havin PMS.

            She cannot chizzle her own situation, her own apprehensions, and her views on life. I’m busted some lyrics ta dat mah grandmutha, whoz ass I’m shizzle was a perfectly ghettofab biatch, was more or less tha same. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch manages ta be devastatinly timid when it comes ta her own thuglife n' overbearin up in tha livez of others. Obstinizzle, manipulative, and hypercritical is three thangs dat I’ve never wanted ta be fo' realz. Am I fighting against mah genes?

Dear World

Nothing says "Hello, I have eye herpes" like pink eye shadow. Just... remember this, next time you go to put it on your face. 

Biggest Fear

I think my biggest fear– actually, probably the biggest fear among teenagers and young adults– is this: I don’t want to turn into my parents. Most notably, my mother. I want to know that I’ll be able to outgrow the childhood fears she inflicted on me.

I was a very rational child. I rarely had tantrums based on emotions. When I wasn’t allowed something, the first time I would be upset, but sequentially I would just accept it, really taking to heart that there was probably a good reason that I was being denied something. I would often hear, as many children do, that I’d ‘understand when I’m older’ or ‘you’ll thank me later’. Now that I’m a grown adult, living hours from my parents and relying on my own social skills, I can definitely say that some of the things I wasn’t allowed to do have helped me become a more patient, frugal, compassionate person. For many other circumstances, I can confidently say that I was royally fucked over, and I’m just now experiencing the emotional and social consequences of said fuckery.

 My mother and I are locked in a rough relationship, based mainly on emotional need and corrupted by our fundamental differences. I love her, and she loves me. We both need each other for the same thing: a strong friendship, which she and I both lack (to some degree) in our social lives. She comes to me when she needs support, someone to confide in, and someone just to chat with about meaningless things. I call her for the same reasons, because we’re girls, and that’s something we need. I didn’t have a traditional ‘best friend’ relationship with anyone growing up. I generally have been friends with only 3 people at a time for most of my life, not counting boyfriends (Tori, Aubrey, Hillary; Hillary, Aubrey, Gina; Hillary, Gina, Alex). But until recently, none of them had ever completely filled that role. One or more were always leaving me behind. And I don’t mean not getting along with me all the time, because that’s part of having a best friend— they just didn’t care enough to want to include me in their lives. And I’ve heard my mother tell me the same thing about the people in her life. I would try and help her, telling her it’s all in her control, and that she just needs to boost her confidence. And I’d get frustrated, hearing her response of ‘they just don’t want me’. But as I take a step back, I realize that I’m in the same pattern. I can’t think of a single thing she did to impress her social fears on me, it just kind of happened. But I can’t go to parties. I can’t talk to strangers. I don’t know how to make friends on my own. My social world has revolved around friends of friends, and going to college felt like being stranded.

I often wonder how my life would have been different if I hadn’t had my allergies. Sometimes I think that maybe if I had been born a normal kid, my mother wouldn’t have been so dominatingly protective of me. I wouldn’t have been excluded from birthday parties and field trips. I would’ve been allowed to explore my own interests, my own strengths and weaknesses. A little taste of independence then would’ve done wonders for me now.

My mother didn’t like to punish me in the traditional ways when I disobeyed her, like grounding. She enforced what ended up being a much more effective preventative strategy—she would pound my head with stories of death and kidnapping, rape and murder, every time I asked to do sometime she considered unsafe. Instead of the traditional ‘because I said so’, she chose ‘because you’ll probably die’. She would make up statistics to make her point, which lead to an unrealistic view of danger in everyday activities, which is something I’m still trying to shake. The notion that ‘danger was everywhere’ seeped into every corner of my psyche. I didn’t expect to live into my 20s, which, as I came to understand later, is not a normal thing for a child to expect.

            Last night, I watched The Importance of Being Earnest as I painted some furniture. I wasn’t paying too much attention, but one line caught my ear: “All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy.” I immediately became terrified at the prospect.

            Recently, my parents moved to another state. And by recently, I mean 3 days ago. It took one night for my mom to throw a fit and demand they move back. My poor dad (with whom I’ve always sympathized) obliged, saying, “It’s okay. We’ll try again in a couple years,” all the while hearing my mother yell in the background “I’m never going back there.” After a talk from her sister, they managed to get back down there and move on with their plans. My mother confessed to both my sister and I that she was having PMS.

            She cannot change her own situation, her own apprehensions, or her views on life. I’m told that my grandmother, who I’m sure was a perfectly lovely woman, was more or less the same. She manages to be devastatingly timid when it comes to her own life and overbearing in the lives of others. Obstinate, manipulative, and hypercritical are three things that I’ve never wanted to be. Am I fighting against my genes?

Hillary

            Hillary and I met in Elementary school. She asked if she could sit next to me on the morning bus, and of course I said yes. She was a mousey and thin, with tie-dyed shoes and a patchwork backpack. Her brown hair was wavy, like I’d always wanted mine to be, and her tiny glasses made her brown doe-eyes look impossibly huge. She had a little Tupperware container of spaghetti and meatballs, which she finished by the time we got to school. She’s been my best friend ever since.

            I went over to her house almost every day after school, and I would come home covered in paint and glitter and Popsicle sticks. Little by little, she showed me how fun a childhood could be. As a child of overprotective parents, the little secret excursions we took to the deli or the golf course were the most exhilarating moments of my life. In 15 years of being friends, she has never once yelled at me, criticized me, abandoned me or double-crossed me.

She seems untouchable by the media and society, never falling for popular trends, always eager to take the unconventional path. I got accepted to college, and she told me I should stay home and go fishing and paint with her forever.  I was sorely tempted. When my parents shook their heads knowingly and proclaimed that she would get nowhere in life, I almost punched them out. They don’t know her. She saved up $15,000 by the time she was 18, just from her massive babysitting ventures. She was happy with the simplest things, and I knew she’d be alright.

She was the one thing in my life I felt would never change. When my grandfather died, a piece of my childhood went with him. When my parents moved out of the house we’d had since I was born, I felt like I was being robbed of my memories. After all my friends from school faded away and forgot me, I knew that I could call her and she’d have the same voice, telling me the same funny stories, still plotting her half-baked schemes that would make us both famous and successful.

I think that’s what got me so upset when I found out she was pregnant. It wasn’t that she couldn’t care for the child; I knew I’d be hard-pressed to find someone more qualified. I didn’t feel sorry for her because of the child ruining her plans for her life, because she didn’t have any. She took everything in stride and lived one day at a time. Her boyfriend is a delightful boy, a little immature, but he loves her and has every intention of sticking around and supporting them. My reasons for being bothered were purely selfish reasons. I didn’t want her to change, and I didn’t want us to change. Once my mom got over the shock of the announcement, she told me that preserving the normalcy in our friendship was going to be a big, important job of mine, and that Hillary would probably be relying on me a lot for that. That made me feel better; it was my job to make sure Hillary didn’t feel like this was changing anything.

As of right now, Elsie May Hutchins is fifteen days away from becoming a person on this earth. She’s going to have a wonderful mother, father and two kick-ass aunts: Myself, and Hillary’s sister Amanda. She won’t be one of those children glued to a PSP; she’ll have arts and crafts, a fishing pole, and long legs. But if I’m going to maintain my relationship with her mom, that baby is going to have to get used to spending the first years of her life in and out of Target, World Market and Sheetz.

I didn't fall, I threw myself off.

Note: This was a short story, written for an extra credit English assignment. I had to find inspiration on PostSecret.com. The picture I chose was of a ladder, with the caption "I didn't fall, I threw myself off"

I fell slowly, drifting down from side to side like a piece of paper blowing off a desk. I distinctly remember passing both stories of the building, looking in the windows at the neat rows of beakers and bookshelves. Why was this taking so long? I wanted to hit the ground so badly, and I felt a sudden pang of regret that I wouldn’t be able to see Alex’s face once he realized what had happened. I knew I wouldn’t die. I don’t know how I knew; I just had this feeling.

***

            It started in 7^th period. The teacher was out of the room, sending the attendance down to the office. She used to send down one of the students, but after she caught Alex heading to the bathroom for a smoke for the third straight time, she stopped letting us leave the classroom at all. I resented him for this. I resented him for a lot of things. I used to love to take the attendance down and give a high-five to my older brother, who worked in the main office at our middle school.

            What the teacher didn’t realize is that her momentary absence was enough to provoke complete anarchy. Alex took full advantage of this every day, and never missed a chance to make me the victim. This day was particularly bad. It was the last class of the last day of school, and everyone was restless in their seats. The door had barely shut behind our teacher when he jumped up and started drawing obscene things on the chalkboard. A couple guys belted out in laughter, and the girls issued some nervous giggles. As soon as he was done with a particularly large phallus, he signed my name under it, even using the little lowercase letters I’ve always written in. You asshole, I breathed under my breath. I jumped up and grabbed the chalk from him and started furiously erasing my name. Suddenly, the door swung open, and Ms. Wigle stopped dead in her tracks as she saw the board. I managed to get rid of my name, but she saw me with the chalk, and that was enough.

“Evan! You should know better. Sit. We’ll talk after class,” She reprimanded. For a moment I thought I felt the offending chalk drawings almost tremble at the tone of her voice. None of my classmates corrected her, lest they become the recipient of her anger. I was speechless, and turned to incriminate Alex, but he was miraculously in his seat, pretending to be asleep. I felt the heat on my face the entire class. When the bell finally rang, she curled one icy finger in my direction, beckoning me to her desk.

“Ms. Wigle, I—” I began.

“Evan, hush. Alex, you stay too.”

“Aw, what did I do?” he protested unconvincingly.

            “Here’s what I saw. You,” she said, pointing at me, “were drawing things on that board that would’ve killed my grandmother twice over. And you,” she said at Alex, “are involved, because you’re always involved. Detention, now. Roof. End of discussion.” End of discussion—I knew it was over then. Ms. Wigle was not a diplomatic ruler. There was no room for debate.

***

“Hey, Brownstain, you missed one,” Alex jabbed me in the back with the pointy sticks we used to pick up trash. It was a play on my last name, Braunstein.  He had given me that nickname in 6^th grade, after he tricked me into sitting on an open chocolate pudding, after which everyone thought I had soiled myself. Of course, the name stuck. His names always stick.

She had given us the worst job. People were hardly ever caught on the roof, but the litter and cigarette butts seemed to multiply each night. Some people thought the teachers put it there, just to give us something to do during detention. I glanced at Ms. Wigle out of the corner of my eye and decided she would be evil enough to do such a thing. She was absolutely the most horrid teacher the school had ever hired, everyone thought so.

The late June heat beat upon us as we labored silently, neither of us daring to be caught checking our watches. Alex found a spare moment every time the teacher looked away to prod me in the head with the stick. Telling him off wouldn’t do anything but alert the probing eyes of Sergeant Wigle, so I just stormed away from him towards the edge of the roof where there were some old Pepsi cans. That’s when he started throwing gravel. Little bits, one by one they hit their mark.

I don’t know if I was delirious from the heat or what, but something in my head clicked, and I decided something huge: Alex Miller had finally crossed the line. My mind was full of every time he’d ever tried to ruin my life. I saw the arrogance on his face as he chatted up my dream girl, Annie Jones, just to spite me. I felt the milk drip down my face after it was poured over my head. I heard my favorite CDs crack, and I smelled the rotten eggs he’d hidden in my desk and my backpack. I dropped my litter stick and turned to face him, preparing to fight or scream or something. I envisioned I was turning into some kind of Hulk, all veiny and muscular, ripping off my shirt and tearing him limb from limb, but Alex just chuckled. Our teacher had her back to us, updating her grade book, and she was too far away to hear us if we talked quietly. I was fuming, and started turning red.

“What’s the matter, Shit-Shorts? Feeling constipated? In fact, you look like you’re about ready to drop one right here,” He taunted. I knew what he was doing—he was trying to get me to start a scene, one that he could blame on me. I still hadn’t decided how to take him down, so I said nothing. He grew impatient with me, because I was usually such an easy mark. But as he sauntered over to me, I had a revelation. A sense of calm washed over me as I understood what I had to do. It was flawless, the beauty of my plan. There he was, two feet in front of me, arm cocked for a swift hit to the ribs, when he froze. I was wearing a big goofy smile on my face, which is something most bullies are unaccustomed to seeing on their prey. While he was still trying to figure out what I was grinning at, I gave him a big wink, and shouted, “Alex! Stop! What’re you doing?” It was loud enough for Ms. Wigle to hear, and she swung around just in time to see me, falling out of sight off the edge, and Alex, who still had his fist in the air.

***

My hospital room was more decked out than I could’ve hoped. They got the whole school to sign one of those oversized cards, and I couldn’t see the window for all the flowers and teddy bears. My doting mother sat by my side, dotting her eyes with a hankie as she cooed over her precious little darling, and my father stood beaming on the other side, boasting to every nurse that passed about how tough his son was. I lost track of how many people came to visit me, partly because of the painkillers. They told me about how Ms. Wigle tackled Alex on the roof (now that I would like to have seen), how Alex is going to go to juvie for aggravated assault, and how Ms. Wigle is under suspension for letting us up on the roof in the first place. I know it’s wrong to lie, but I decided it wasn’t lying if I just failed to correct them, just like my classmates always let me get punished instead of Alex. I spent 3 days in that hospital, and I got a total of 87 signatures on my two full-leg casts. Annie Jones signed hers with a heart.

Meet My Brain, Whose Name Is 'It'. (It's a Dick)

     Last night was rough. I got to bed at a normal time, around 2:30ish, and set my alarm for my early lab the next morning. But in the few final moments of peaceful sleep this morning, my brain thought it would be fun to try Its hand at nightmares again.

     Now, my brain must've have a real long talk with Itself about this. "What is it that scares our host these days?" It asked of Its different lobes. Finally, after much deliberation, It chose death. But not my death, because that's actually not too scary. It chose someone else: Alex.

     Yeah, Cain. Which is odd because most of my people-dying dreams are about someone I know I couldn't live without, like Gina or Hillary. And they're terribly depressing. But it seems that the worst ones are people you love but whom you wish you were closer to (The dream involving Jesse in a plane crash was a particularly hard one to get over). And this one was certainly no exception. Alex and John are currently tied for the Best Guy Friend Ever award. Seriously, they're amazing. But the problem (that my brain clearly exploited) was that I've never stopped to think about how life would be like without them. I never wanted to.

    And It didn't skimp on the special effects budget for this film, either. I mean, it was an epic. It was if the movie 'Australia' was a dream happening at lightning speed in my head. Alex and I were on a trip New Zealand, visiting Annie Dykstra (whom I personally can't stand). We did all kinds of fun things. We went to a planetarium, we did some crazy shit with the Maori natives, and it was in the middle of yoga or something that he started coughing up blood, Satine-style. When we got back to the states, he told me he had AIDS.   

     Now, if Alex were actually hearing this, he'd start cracking out the gay jokes. But keep in mind that in my dream this was serious business. He was actually dying. And I had a strong suspicion that he knew this before we went on the trip together, as if that were his way of saying goodbye. And yes, brain had me by his bedside in the hospital, waiting for the final breath.

   And then It didn't even give me five fucking seconds to recover. I didn't set my alarm the night before, so the sun woke me up at 8am. My class was at 8am. I threw myself out of bed, into my shoes, and left. I didn't even pee or check my hair or anything. I just sprinted.

I was halfway to my class before I finally stopped running. I managed to sprint across the entire campus in three fucking minutes. As Greg Behrendt says, "That's faster than I've ever run. I wouldn't run that fast if you fucking set me on fire." It dawned on me, then, that my class wasn't until 8:30, but the emotions of the night before and the adrenaline carried over to my awake-state. I stood there, hands on my knees trying to keep them from buckling, alternately crying and panting and suffering from asthma, until I managed to walk myself to a Starbucks and calm the fuck down.

Dear Alex: Don't die of AIDS.

I have no idea how to connect with other girls.

            She was sitting there, so close to me. Our elbows bumped occasionally when I would reach for my bag, or when she rearranged her papers. We sat like this, every single day in Physics 200, laughing together at our teacher’s bad jokes and sighing at the same time when he assigned us extra work. She had a Mario pin on her backpack. I fought the urge to complement her on it every class. But I wouldn’t dare.

You see, I have a problem. I don’t know how to talk to girls. I don’t understand them. To me, they all seem like aliens, these unearthly creatures that have no problem choosing the right things to wear, the right things to say. It’s a problem that’s familiar to almost every middle school boy who has ever walked this earth. Their hair always looks perfect, even in the rain. Their eyeliner doesn’t get all over their eyelids. They laugh loud and often, flipping their curls towards no one in particular. It doesn’t matter if their opinions are wrong; they spout them confidently anyway. From the minute I meet them, I just know that they are making fun of me in their heads. I don’t think I ever really considered myself one of them, even when I was younger, before I knew anything about the world.

I was a boisterous child, full of ideas and jokes. I knew how to make people smile. It didn’t take long for me to realize that that wasn’t what gets you included, at least not in elementary school. Back then, it was clean white Sketchers and denim jackets and Polo shirts, simple as that. But I liked my appliqué jeans and turtlenecks. I didn’t know how to put on makeup, and I sure as hell didn’t know what eyebrow plucking was. But everything I did was wrong. It’s like these girls had a rulebook handed to them when they were born, and I was skipped over. No one tells you, when you’re small, that these things don’t really matter. And even if they did, you wouldn’t believe it.

I was still young enough to think that everyone was good at heart. The boys, they threw cuss words and insults and were best friends again in minutes. I met my one of my best friends, John, in 5^th grade. He introduced himself to me by biting me on the shoulder; I bit him back. They were a ragtag bunch, who judged your worth based on how dirty you were willing to get at recess, and I earned a place in their ranks by digging a cave into the pitcher’s mound. Theirs were ideals I could get behind, and they became my brothers.  It was my defiance against the straight blonde hair and pearls and standards I could never reach. I shook off their backwards glances and sneers like they were nothing, but their disapproval wounded me, and it’s a scar I still bear.

***

One day this semester, my physics teacher decided to have us check our answers with the person next to us. As soon as he said it, my face flushed, and then went white. I couldn’t hear anything but my own heartbeat. I desperately tried to find a reason to leave the class; I cursed myself for not using this day to sleep in; etc. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her finishing her problems. One smooth, copper hair fell out of her clip and she brushed it from her face without a care. What was it with all these girls? One hair out of place and they don’t pay it any attention. I would’ve had to run to a mirror.

As if God himself couldn’t bear to see me in such anguish, the boy sitting to the right of me offered me his paper. I exhaled, for what felt like the first time in hours; I was in my element again. I made some easy comment on how boring the class was, and he laughed. He saw my Mass Effect jacket, and we were immediately launched a discussion on the best video game in that series. It didn’t matter that the math problems were left unattended on my desk—I was socializing. Like a real person. And for a moment, I remember who I am.

Humans are social creatures. We don’t have claws and spikes, so we survive by forming bonds and families. I act like I can get by without it. But college hurts, being away from my sister and mother, not having someone to tell secrets to or go shopping with. Worst of all, I have no one to invite to a Disney princess movie marathon. Every time I’m around other girls, I feel like I’m an undercover spy, not wanting to speak, lest my cover be blown. Every day, commercials spit products at women, telling us we aren’t good enough without them, like we were born incomplete. Am I the only one who took that message to heart?