Fuck these girls.
These girls who cry because high school is over.
Fuck these girls who mourn the passing
of a rotten fucking blight on our young lives.
No one suspected Kathleen Wyzinski was silently composing what read something like the note the police might find scrawled on the inside of the back cover of an AP Calc textbook in the locker of that pimply kid who tried to knife the Salutatorian Prom Queen just as “Pomp and Circumstance” began to sound from the chapel organ and the graduating mothers sounded their whimpering noses like trumpets and trombones and the babies all whined like detuned violins--
“Hey yo, Kathleen, what the hell are you waiting for?”
Kathleen had closed her eyes, something she did when she was narrating, something she did to force herself to be more evocative, more precise, and had failed to notice that Darlene Vulvankawitz already had a 15 meter head start on her, more than double the rehearsed distance. She could see Eddie Z.’s sweaty mother, face a mess with tears and snot and sweat and makeup that had congealed to a paste, glaring at poor Kathleen as she, Mrs. Z., waited impatiently to snap a picture of Eddie’s impossibly non-photogenic mug as he ambled past her on his way to receive the diploma his father’s donations had earned him.
“Seriously K, MOVE IT!” Eddie hissed and poked her sharply with his knuckle like a prepubescent man-child.
Kathleen lurched forward into the chapel, lacking all the grace that after 15 years of classical ballet, should pretty much at this point have been toxically burned deep into her muscles. Her muscles however were tight and agitated and wholly ungraceful about one-hundred percent of the time outside of the studio or off of the stage. She had contracted like a turtle upon hearing Eddie’s awful voice, attempting to collapse all of her atoms upon themselves so that she might condense and cease to exist or at the very least, become non-reflective.
However there she was, tall and wobbly on silly shoes, teetering down the long isle toward the alter, the most unholy of alters, decorated with living icons from four years of an existence marked by an ever-increasing devotion to hermitdom.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
A piece of something that is kind of gay, needs a shit TON of editing and might be really stupid, let me know please
Her default expression was a smile that had absolutely nothing to do with her mouth. Still not even the most obvious, untalented poet would try to claim that it had something to do with her eyes. Eyes don’t smile. Eyes refract light onto the retina, slowing the light down and allowing the brain to process images. I’m not trying to say it had anything to do with her goddamned eyebrows either. Just relax your face in an open and innocent and sad way that it is not at all naive and if you are capable of doing that perhaps you are capable of understanding her. Don’t look in the mirror though because her expression is not anything like the ridiculous expression on your slackened maw.
After high school she moved to Paris to study ballet and she found that the city was comforting to her, especially because in Paris language was no longer abrasive or invasive, as it was back home. Because she could not understand the foreign tongues of Parisians, the incessant noise of people nattering became like muzak except not annoying or shitty. Unburdened by understanding she could stand to venture out into public and to listen. Her muscles relaxed, her dancing improved. Her thoughts were clearer than they had been in eighteen years, which is to say clearer than they had ever been. The need to shut out the world slowly shrank away. She got along by pointing and smiling and humming quietly to herself so as not to begin to pick up the language, accidentally. Local grocers and booksellers did not even have to excuse her ignorance for they never suspected that she did not speak their language. They were too enraptured by her movements and her face to think of anything other than what she had gestured for.
She was never in want of physical company for the boys were drawn to this strange girl who never seemed to talk. She shut them up by placing a finger to their lips and if that did not work she simply left them, dumbfounded.
Of course the girl was not living a silent existence. She would however only carry out her intellectual discourses in English with the more socially withdrawn students from the University’s mathematics department whom she found mostly too clumsy to be arrogant or suave and who simply fell back on what they had recently learned about Wittgenstein or Riemann which she enjoyed. One of these students, something like a friend of hers, was a young woman who’s older brother was a prodigiously talented pianist and a composer and was very good looking in a way that wasn’t at all annoying and she loved to hear him play the piano but he only spoke French so she kept her distance even though she was magnetically attracted to him.
She feared him because she knew that if she began to spend time with him she would quickly learn French because there was no way in hell she would ever consider putting her finger to his lips because she was well aware of how damned silly and pretentious that was. She enjoyed doing it because she never could have gotten away with it with the boys in high school who all thought she was extremely pretty but who found her to be too painfully sad to hold hands with or sit next to at the movies.
After high school she moved to Paris to study ballet and she found that the city was comforting to her, especially because in Paris language was no longer abrasive or invasive, as it was back home. Because she could not understand the foreign tongues of Parisians, the incessant noise of people nattering became like muzak except not annoying or shitty. Unburdened by understanding she could stand to venture out into public and to listen. Her muscles relaxed, her dancing improved. Her thoughts were clearer than they had been in eighteen years, which is to say clearer than they had ever been. The need to shut out the world slowly shrank away. She got along by pointing and smiling and humming quietly to herself so as not to begin to pick up the language, accidentally. Local grocers and booksellers did not even have to excuse her ignorance for they never suspected that she did not speak their language. They were too enraptured by her movements and her face to think of anything other than what she had gestured for.
She was never in want of physical company for the boys were drawn to this strange girl who never seemed to talk. She shut them up by placing a finger to their lips and if that did not work she simply left them, dumbfounded.
Of course the girl was not living a silent existence. She would however only carry out her intellectual discourses in English with the more socially withdrawn students from the University’s mathematics department whom she found mostly too clumsy to be arrogant or suave and who simply fell back on what they had recently learned about Wittgenstein or Riemann which she enjoyed. One of these students, something like a friend of hers, was a young woman who’s older brother was a prodigiously talented pianist and a composer and was very good looking in a way that wasn’t at all annoying and she loved to hear him play the piano but he only spoke French so she kept her distance even though she was magnetically attracted to him.
She feared him because she knew that if she began to spend time with him she would quickly learn French because there was no way in hell she would ever consider putting her finger to his lips because she was well aware of how damned silly and pretentious that was. She enjoyed doing it because she never could have gotten away with it with the boys in high school who all thought she was extremely pretty but who found her to be too painfully sad to hold hands with or sit next to at the movies.
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