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Echoes and Mirrors» Blog Archive » Why They Were Stabbed

Why They Were Stabbed

Written circa 2003. Dig the angst. (I suspect I’m just more articulate now than anything else.)

My mind is wandering again and suddenly I realize that the teacher is yelling at me about something. I probably forgot to do my homework. Was there homework? I mutter something in response and look down at my notebook. I drew a picture of a dead cat instead of notes on the start of the cold war.

Looks like I’m stuck again. I don’t really care about this class because I know I’ll get a least a B and all I can think about is going to work and picking up my paycheck. I think today is payday. I’ve got a bead on some nice kind buds and I don’t want to let them slip away.

The girl sitting behind me thinks the poem on the back of my t-shirt is cool. I don’t think she understands what it means. I mumble something and turn around. Slumped in my seat, you would think I have no desire to be here. I do. If I weren’t here, I’d be in bed and nothing would ever happen. At least in school I can stare at other people and hone my techniques of hating them, become familiar with the society I reject. I’m pretty sure that will pass. I don’t really hate people; that takes too much effort. Mostly I just don’t care for being around other people.

I’m really looking forward to my politics class in an hour. I have my stupid art class between now and then and I plan on skipping out of it. I think I’ll walk down to the record store up the street and peruse their grand selection of used CDs and smoke a few cigarettes.

The rest of this hour is filled with a bunch of morons who can’t grasp the concept of war asking stupid questions. I am full of rage, but theres not much I can do about it. It’ll pass soon enough because I’ll get to my politics class and be able to talk to a few intelligent folks who regard me as some sort of freakishly intelligent savage. I’m the only stoner in the class. I take the position of the Palestinians when we debate. I cause trouble. I also get good marks on all my essays.

The teachers force liberal viewpoints down my throat on a daily basis. I can’t complain too much; they could be trying to get me to sign up for the young republicans student group.

After another two hours of school, I emerge from politics and take the rest of the day off. That’s not just a choice I made; I got my schedule planned perfectly. It’s time to get high and have a couple of drinks. I see some anti-abortion protesters hanging out on a corner a few blocks from the school while I walk to my car. They’ve been there all week. They started out in front of the main entrance and have moved away day by day. Yes, their giant rotting fetus posters are disgusting but I find it to be a very thoughtful tactic. Some of the other students want the images to put onto t-shirts. I would love to walk over there and smash their fucking signs and punch them in the eyes.

I however, have a different plan. I’m going to listen to talk radio while I go get a burger and call my hook up. I’m thinking about the options for my politics essay due tomorrow (I’ve had a week to do it) and I think I might have narrowed it down to writing something about women’s lib. I’ll be the devil’s advocate, because I love that job. The teacher is a fucking hippie douche bag and He’ll like whatever I turn in because I wear anti-establishment garb. I want to sock him in the mouth too. He’s just as bad as those anti-abortion fucks.

I can’t vote yet, and I don’t think I would given the opportunity. Nothing is going to change and I can’t talk my ballot into making any more of a difference than choosing which asshole is going to not change what I want him to. I think that I might have my essay topic and make a mental note. The hippies don’t like to vote either and they’ll appreciate my sympathy. Hippies always appreciate sympathy. I think they’ve sold out their cause. They rely on statistics and read the financial pages and listen to economists. They wear polyester running pants when they jog every morning. Hippies are not bad people but I’d still stab them, given the opportunity

I agree with you, but I’d like to see your heart bleed for real as proof of your sincerity.

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