Playing With Fire

I have a lot of balls in the air.

Yesterday I heard from my miserable Uncle Ben regarding my retarded legal struggles. The police, on the strength of this blog, are going to go ahead and try me in A COURT OF LAW. Ooooo. I am shaking in my mother fucking BOOTS. Fuck the cops, fuck the court of law, fuck the LAW, and fuck my goddamned useless lawyer, Uncle Ben, for giving me up.

And all of you can shut the fuck up; I know he did it. I thought I should tell him about my blog, because I heard somewhere you tell your attorney everything, so I did, because I am an IDIOT. I told him it was all make believe, that I want to be famous (not FAMOUS famous, but you know, internet famous), and that I wanted to write novels when I GROW UP and that this is great practice (HA HA HA HA HA), and he was like, “Pendel, you always seem to choose the least intelligent path. Why is that?” Oh my GOD.

ANY-FUCKING-WHOS, after I tell that rice-eating bastard about my “made up” website, and tell him that it might be best if he KEEP THIS KNOWLEDGE TO HIMSELF, my mom comes busting into my room that very freaking night asking me what the hell is wrong with me, why did I do it, why do I hate her, how could I get hooked on psychedelic drugs and foul my temple (that’s what she calls a person’s body—so gay and gross), why have I forsaken MY GOD—yes, that’s right, she fucking asked me why I have forsaken my god—and I looked her right in the eye and I said, what god, mom? The one that gave you such an awful son? Oh man, she wailed like a stuck Irish pig at that one. She said that if I hated this family so much then I no longer had to be a part of it, and that she’s sick of my lies, and that I have embarrassed her so so badly in front of her DEAR BROTHER, who was so kind to try and help me out of the MORASS of TROUBLE I have created for MYSELF and EVERYBODY AROUND ME. I said if you want me out of your lousy, stinking house, I’ll leave. Just show me the FUCKING DOOR. AND! I told her that if her brother wanted to help me so badly, then why the hell is he TELLING THE WHOLE FUCKING TOWN EVERYTHING I SAY TO HIM?? What the hell kind of lawyer DOES THAT? I am so pissed. I could bite the head off of a fucking Rottweiler right now.

Uncle Ben, if I end up going to jail, I am going to kill you. My own goddamned lawyer acts like he thinks my website is true? I swear to god, I will boil you in your own flow-through pouch until you are tender and fluffy and I will eat you with chicken. Make book on it, asshole.

My court date is a month from now. It should prove to be very stimulating.

The other day I tripped acid again, but it was on the golf course with Sugarbear and Johnson. It was insane. After we all parted ways, my head was still buzzing like a downed power line after a tornado, everything just pulsing with such a hilarious energy, and I knew I didn’t want to go home for a few hours yet, so I wandered the sunset until I accidentally (?) came across Mr. Hanson’s house. My friends, I saw some crazy ass shit.

And I will tell you all about it later. LATER.

Mmmm Bop Saturday

I had my Saturday with Mr. Hanson, dream date extraordinaire. He is such an asshole. He walks in the door dressed like it’s Wednesday, as if his entire life is spent in those cheap “nice clothes” that teachers so often wear, like they’ve had them for decades but can’t afford or be bothered to shop for anything new. He says to me all sunny like, “I think it would be good for us to just take today and get familiar with each other.” I said if he wants to get familiar with someone he should go home and do it with his wife. I’m sure she’d be happy for the change. He immediately changed gears on me and threw some pamphlets down in front of my face with a nasty snarl. They were for SAT tests, and I just had to laugh. I told him, hey, what are you, deaf? I’m not going to college, and I’m not going to put myself through any of these de-humanizing, categorizing, and petty ranking exercises.

I should know better than to say such things. He of course went off the handle, talking endlessly about how I’m killing my own future, resigning myself to a limited existence, and how his college years were the best years of his life (again with this…what’s he been doing with the rest of it, I ask you?). I told him that the more he opens his fucking mouth about it, the more I want to dig post holes for the rest of my life. I’d rather stuff cheap toys into cereal boxes for the next 50 goddamn years than to listen to even ONE MORE middle-aged loser with his best years behind him tell me how I’m letting life pass me by. Hanson’s sitting here, at my parent’s stupid kitchen table, on a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning, talking to a person less than half his age who doesn’t even like him, and he’s accusing ME of letting life pass by? I guarantee you that on his death bed, Hanson is going to look back on the time he spent with me and he will regret it. He will mention my name with tears in his eyes as some unfortunate soul turns him over to wipe his ass and clean his puss-filled sores; Hanson will feel the coldness of the wipe on his withered rump cheeks and he will say, “Pendel…why did I do it?,” confusing his orderly for life. And at that very moment, fifteen-hundred miles away, I will suddenly stop in the middle of my nightly chat-room masturbation session, drop the hunk of shoelace I was using as a tourniquet from around my neck, bringing to a screeching halt the autoerotic asphyxiation session that would have otherwise taken my life. I will then suffer a grand mal seizure, the world around me will dissolve away into a silver-grey mist, and I will abruptly come to my senses fifteen months later in a Russian slave-labor camp on a bright, sunny, Saturday morning while embroiled in a heated conversation with a young Russian man named Pavel, who is seated across from me at a table in the middle of a well-kept Russian slave-labor camp kitchen. I will be angrily shouting that he is wasting his life, and he will be asking me how I got the scars around my neck. I will never be heard from again.

But all of that has yet to happen. For the time being, there is Mr. Hanson, and he is asking me what I will do after graduation. I shrug. I don’t really care to answer him. He presses me. “Don’t give me your disaffected youth bullshit, Pendel,” he says. “You are going to have to do SOMETHING. Even if it’s only living on the street or pushing drugs. I just want to know what it is.” Pushing drugs. Ha. Who came up with that saying? Is it truly possible to push drugs onto people who don’t want them? I said to him, hey, you know, that’s a decent idea. I hadn’t considered it. Thanks.

It was odd to watch his scowl deepen into his face. It happened slowly, as if he aged in front of my eyes. It was kind of cool, really, like a special effect in a movie. I said wow. He said “Wow what?” I said, look man, I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t thought about it that much. I’ll probably move out and get a job somewhere.

He gazed at me and after a second he kind of snorted and he said, “From what I hear you’ll have to get out of jail first.” I said, fuck what you hear, and even so, what difference does it make to you? And he says, “Nothing, but you should know that it can be hard for an ex-con to find a job, Pendel.” I had to laugh at that. Touché. We touched on how he has spoken to other teachers about me, and how they all think I am smart, but VERY disinterested, and my attitude makes it hard for anyone to want to reach out. My only comment to this was I am happy to know at least ONE thing I had planned turned out the way I wanted. He shook his head, but I think he could see that I am completely full of shit. The truth of the matter is that I simply have no idea where to go or what to do. I don’t fit in to this world and I am at a loss to know what to do next. He left, but said, “Same time, next week.” I am just all a-shiver with anticipation.

A couple of days later, I was going over all this crap with Dr. Douchenheimer the Wonder Shrink, and he asked me why I am so resistant to Hanson’s—or anybody’s—help or advice. I’ll tell all of you what I told him: I don’t know why. I just am. Then that bastard Douchenheimer had the balls to smile. I said, what’s up, douche-doc? And he smugly leans back in his richly-leathered chair and says, “Well, at least you admit that you’re resistant.” I said, hey that’s fucking great. You’re a genius. You gonna publish a paper on me now, Dr. Leather Chair? And he said not yet, and I said, yeah, I think you should hold off on that for the time being.

After leaving his office, I got winded for no reason whatsoever and had to sit down on a bench. It scared me, and I got all anxious and weirded out, and thought about going to the hospital, but it passed fairly quickly and I decided to ignore that it even happened at all. I just sat there for a while and thought about things. I thought about me. It ended up being too depressing of a pastime and I made myself stop.

I watched a man cross the street with a red hat and headphones. He was smiling about nothing, which is always an odd sight to see. A cop car was crossing against his path—and against the fucking stop light, of course—and had to stop suddenly to avoid hitting the man in the red hat, who stepped up his pace 0%, which I of course admired. The cop in the passenger seat yells out his window at the guy to get out of the fucking way. The guy in the red hat just smiled even bigger and kept walking. The very millisecond the man cleared the path of the cop car, it lurched forward inexpertly with its sirens on and lights flashing. It was such a bullshit move on the cops’ part, done only to justify their asshole behavior, and it was so obvious to me a few moments later when the cops turned their lights and sirens off again a few blocks away that they needed to make noise in order to cover up the man in the red hat’s defiance. Their power was nothing against a person who had done nothing wrong but yet chose not to bend to their will. They had guns, but still they had to wait.

I felt, and still feel, grateful to the man in the red hat who smiled at nothing. He gave me a very small shred of hope, whether I want it or not. And BTW, didn’t I see a man smiling at nothing the last time I left Dr. Duchenheimer’s office? What’s that about? The world is too ominous for its own good.

Golf Won’t Save Me

At the end of last week I attended my first thrilling installment of golf practice. It wasn’t horrible in that I didn’t have to change my clothes, or get all fucking tired and sweaty, or worry too much about prickish jocks and their brutish, single-minded desire to crush the hope and life out of all who surround them and are different from them—but I realized after just a little while that I didn’t really want to be there and that I’m not really any good at golf. On the brighter side, being good at golf isn’t really an issue when you play on my school’s golf team; the fighting Panthers won’t be taking home any kind of fucking golf cup or whatever the hell the trophy is for putting. Not this year, anyway. Certainly not with Pendel on the team.

It seems silly to call the teacher in charge of this twice-weekly nature walk a “coach,” but we do. Coach Brody is short and thin and rat-like, but he’s not overtly evil—in fact he seems entirely harmless—he’s simply misguided and strange. He seems to think that the high school golf team matters and I don’t think he’s willing to let this delusion go. You wouldn’t believe how many times this guy walked me through a tee-off, and I was knocked over to witness that the one-hundredth demonstration was just as inspired as the first, no matter how half-hearted my efforts. Man, he was FULL of the healing properties of golf, totally consumed by it’s healthful benefits, and this obsession left him so completely bereft of self awareness that—and I swear to freaking god it’s true—he carried his extra golf balls around in the right front pocket of his tight plaid pants, and he always carried two, and they were down right by his crotch, and you could see every dimple in each ball. And in helping me get my swing down (a process which was not helped by the fact that I couldn’t give the slightest bit of shit about my swing), he kept standing behind me and putting his hands on my hips, which fucking FREAKED MY SHIT the first time he did it, but I quickly realized that this joker probably hasn’t thought about any kind of sex in two+ decades. I still felt completely invaded and soon told him that if he planned on keeping his fucking hands he needed to keep them off me.

Brody was taken aback by that, but I got some guffaws out of Sugarbear and Johnson, both of whom have become a point of despair for Brody, it seems. He has totally given up on their swings, and mostly we just walked around taking swigs of cheap wine that we poured into empty Pepsi bottles, occasionally hitting some balls into the woods or sand traps. It was good for some laughs. We got pretty toasted. Best of all, Coach Brody is so into his own head that he barely even noticed I had joined the team. I think he’s happy anyone gives a shit at all. The irony is we DON’T give a shit, and that’s exactly why we are there. Maybe that’s why everyone loves golf. It’s the only reason I can think of.

When practice was over, he simply walked back towards the direction of the school. He said, “Okay, fellahs, that’s enough for today.” Then he turned on his heels and left. It was pretty abrupt. I think he thought we were walking behind him.

I sat around the last green with Sugarbear and Johnson until well after sunset. There’s a small lake right nearby—supposedly it’s meant to throw off your game or some such lame-ass bullshit—but actually it’s very pretty, and I could tell why a person might like to trip acid there. It’s bound to be a good time.

When the wine was almost gone, I got the usual urge to talk more than I should while drinking and I started to tell Sugarbear (and Johnson) about something that happened a few months ago: Clare and I are like two years apart almost exactly, and her friends are all right around 15. Like any other girl, she has her friends over to stay the night all the time. So once, this girl named Vanessa comes over. She’s very pretty and very blonde, and she has the darkest eyes…they’re fucking crazy. It’s like I see the middle of the universe in her face. But you know, she’s very young, just barely not a girl anymore, and I try not to think about Clare’s friends too much as a rule anyway, mainly because I would hate to fuck up Clare anymore than I already have. I guess what the hell would it be to her if I make time with one of those girly girls—and besides, I know so many guys dating 15 year-olds, but oh well. I have enough problems. But Vanessa…wow. Trust me, if you saw her, you would want to change yourself—and then you would find it impossible, and then you would be crushed with the realization that a girl like her could never be yours, and then you would throw yourself off of a building. And as you lay crushed on the pavement and bleeding out of your anus, it would dawn on you that none of the buildings in your town are tall enough to be lethal, and then you would truly rue the day you came to believe you could win the heart of Vanessa.

So that night, she and Clare are watching TV, and I’m sitting on the big chair behind them. I think they were watching the fucking Hills or some such horrendous fucking malarkey. I was just spacing out, until Vanessa started brushing her hair. Before I knew it, I was fixated. It was hypnotizing. Her face was so blank, bathed in the TV’s unnatural light, and her movements so graceful, fluid, and automatic; she was one of the most beautiful machines I had ever seen. I don’t know how long I had been staring at her, maybe like five minutes or something, but it was long enough that I had forgotten there was a room around us, or even a world around us, and so I barely noticed when she said to me—without her eyes even leaving the television or the expression on her face changing—she says to me, “Stop looking at me, creepy Pendel.”

Creepy Pendel. Is that what I am?

When I went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. She filled my vision even with my eyes closed. I tried like a freaking five-year-old to close my eyes even tighter, trying to block my imagination from seeping through the cracks of my lids, but it didn’t work. So I tip-toed into Clare’s room and just watched Vanessa breathe. With her motionless except for the slow movement of her chest, it was even more hypnotic than before. It was like she had never even been born; like she was out in space floating, waiting, without orders yet given, no hopes or fears yet in her; she had no need to be peaceful—having not yet been made aware of the shitty horrors of the world, and thusly had no need to be at peace—and so even peace was absent from her face. And again, I don’t know how long I had been staring. I was maybe even sleeping at her side when she said, so quietly that it thundered in my ears, “You’re scaring me.”

So I went back to my room. Probably I fell asleep. Who knows and who cares.

When I was done telling that story, Johnson was just looking at the ground with a strange smile at the corner of his lips (which I get A LOT, btw), and Sugarbear was shaking his head. “Pendel, you have got to get it together, man.” That was all he had to say about my story. Most likely it’s all I deserve.

I think I write too much for one post. I’ve been looking around at the other blogs out there (it’s a big step for me to come right out and use the word blog in relation to myself), and none of them seem to go on as endlessly as I do. I think I must bore the shit out of people.

Patrice

I hooked up with Patrice a week ago Sunday night, completely by accident. Before I go any further, let me say this: Patrice is a sneak and a liar, and anything you hear from her is complete bullshit. If Patrice tells you that gas makes a car go, question it; check her sources. I feel about Patrice the same way I feel about Access Hollywood: she can be good for a laugh, but she has no ethics and will do anything to get ratings. Ugh. My mom loves that retarded show. She Tivos it and I think she has a glass of wine in the afternoon while she watches. She gets all dolled up in her high-waist jeans and clogs and snorts her disapproval over a bunch of everyday nonsense that may or may not be true, and is none of her goddamned business to begin with. What a waste of a life. Me going to jail tomorrow and earning my GED behind freaking bars is a better use of time. I HATE it.

And what did I go and do? The same damn thing as my mom. Drank some booze and ended up getting my kicks off of some lame sensationalistic bitch.

Sugarbear had an awesome party set up for that Sunday afternoon. His parents rock this mansion (at least, it’s a mansion to me) about a half mile away from my parent’s dump, and it is totally set up to fucking kill bugs dead. Hot tub, pool out back, sunken living room with the whole crazy home theater set-up and a freaking DVD jukebox that holds like two-hundred movies, for the love of Christ. And they have the SECOND living room where old people go and sit when they come over, with nothing but furniture, end tables, and flowers in it, I guess because the seniors don’t like all those shocking loud noises scaring them out of their shit-filled diapers. What a mess. Old people torque me off. What’s it gonna kill you to come and hear the younger set talk? Afraid you might learn something new right before you die? I guess I’d be pissed too, though, finding out about all the cool new things the world had to offer a fucking week before biting it.

The house has a kick-ass make-out pit in the basement, with black lights and a music dock and suede throw pillows EVERYWHERE, and there’s no windows so it is dark ALL THE TIME, even in the middle of day. During party mode, no one is allowed in the basement alone. Sugarbear assigns a pal (personal ass licker) to basically be a bouncer at the basement door, with a kind of gate made of the velvet ropes and poles that Sugarbear and another buddy of his named Johnson (also on the golf team) ripped-off from the local movie theatre. It makes the whole scene totally authentic. I love it. Usually I spend like an hour down there with Camile, but she obviously OPTED OUT of attending Sugar’s party with me, seeing as she read all about me smashing her monkey-dad’s windshield in on this site last week. THAT’S RIGHT. She found it. Needless to say, she and I are not dating at the moment. HA HA. Fuck her and her dumb-ass fish lips. I’ve had just about enough of her and her sweet little sprinkle of pimples. Die, Camile. I know you’re reading this, you strumpet. DIE. I smashed your dad’s window because he is a DICK and I HATE HIM, and I hate YOU, because you are obviously JUST LIKE HIM. You ACT like him, and guess what, you fucking prima donna hose-bag—you LOOK like him, too, you goddamned APEGIRL. You think you are so smart, calling the cops, and telling them about my blog…well, joke’s on YOU, Bitchy McSlutkins, because they ALREADY KNEW ABOUT IT, so HA HA HA. Hey, take this on, Camile: you think I’m so bad for smashing in a windshield, hmmmmm?? How about the fact that your oh-so-demure mommy is gonna be in way over her head in a pot of scalding hot water for not filing taxes on her little house-cleaning business? I heard my straight-laced parental units talking about it like three months ago. She’s fucking BUSTED, and there is NO WAY AROUND IT, and there’s a very good chance she’s gonna do HARD TIME FOR IT. Me, all I’m gonna have to do is some freaking lawn maintenance in the city park, so who’s worse? Her, or me? Or hey, maybe even YOU? The product of an ape and a thief, and the ex-girlfriend of a loser vandal, that’s what you are. And a fucking SNITCH.

CAMILE GLADSTONE IS A DIRTY RAT SNITCH.

Spread the word.

What was I talking about? Ah yes. The liar Patrice. What a prize. What was I thinking? So, she finds me at Sugarbear’s party, and she starts talking to me about how Camile is such a loser for snitching me out, that she read all my shit, and she thinks it’s sooo sexy that I have a blog (WHAT?!? Please). It’s all bullshit, and Patrice has just about the biggest feet I’ve ever seen on a girl, and her hair is like such an afro that I swear she’s got birds in it, but by this time I was on my third or fourth beer, so when she turned to get a cold one and rubbed her ass on my johnson again, it was pretty much over. She came back and said she wanted to see the basement but had no one to go down with, and I was like, you do NOW.

Benji was watching the rope at the time, and when he saw me going down with Patrice his fucking eyes fell out of his head. I mean, it’s no surprise that Patrice the Terrible would eat up a friend’s ex for breakfast—I mean hell, her whole reputation is built off of what she did to Tammy Reddick two years ago—but I think Benji was shocked because we spend so much time ragging on Patrice in the cafeteria lobby about her hair and her cross-eyes (when she takes off her glasses her eyes cross, so weird). Whatever. I’m what you might call an ASS MAN, and in my drunken state, Patrice had it in spades.

So we go downstairs, and she pulls me around by my belt (for all her failings she ain’t shy, bubba) to an empty spot as we stepped carefully over all the writhing bodies in the dim black light. It’s funny, now that I think about it. I wasn’t at all skeeved by being around a bunch of people getting to third base together in the same dark room at the time, but now I suddenly feel like I need to take antibiotics. Well, we find a spot, and she immediately is all over me and kissing me like a fucking back-HO, like this is a freaking construction project for her, like she is excavating something out of my face. And her breath is slimy and gross, all stale and smoky cause she smokes cigarettes (which I happen to not give a flying fuck about but her breath was SO bad), and suddenly I’m like, what the hell am I DOING? And she’s all like whispering, “I’m going to ROCK you, slugger.” And I’m thinking SLUGGER? Who the fuck says SLUGGER? But I don’t know how to get out of the situation, it’s like she has me where she wants me, and I can’t get free…she’s too confident, too strident, and I KNOW she has a HUGE fucking mouth and god knows what she’s gonna tell people if I jet on her.

It was at that moment that my ass started vibrating. I jumped up about ten feet in the air, totally startled, landing on some dude’s ankle, and he was like, “What the fuck?” And I was like, “My ass, my ass, something’s in my ass!” And everyone stops what their doing, pulling tongues out of respective orifices, and is just gaping at me as I dance around the basement. I THINK I danced around the basement, anyway. That’s how I recall it. So embarrassing. So, you know, of course I eventually remembered I had my cell phone in my back pocket, fucking DUH, and I pull it out and it’s a text from Sugarbear saying dude what the FUCK are you DOING down there with that BIRD’S NEST?

That broke the spell. Yes, I thought, what the fuck AM I doing with her? By this time she’s walked over to me, looking all around to see who’s looking at us, and she’s like, “Hey, what the hell, Pendel? Are you gonna come back and get busy?” And I’m just horrified with myself, because her glasses are off, and it doesn’t even look like she’s looking at me, she’s looking at her own freaking NOSE for CHRIST’S SAKE, and I’m just like, hey, sorry, I can’t…I gotta go…

I don’t even know if she said anything to me after that. I ran upstairs and was through the door in an instant, squinting in the light, and like, Sugarbear and Benji are practically on the floor laughing at me.

So what. It happens to the best of us, right? Well, you must remember that Patrice is a lying swamp monster skank. I go to school on Monday to find out she told everybody I spewed everywhere as soon as she touched me, and squealed like a 13 year old, and that’s why I ran out on her. HATE HER AND WANT HER DEAD.

On top of this, now with my guilty vandal status and community horseshit, my parents have RAMMED weekends with Mr. Hanson down my throat. We start Saturday, but I haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to kill myself before that. BUT! I start golf tomorrow, and maybe within a couple of days, I’ll get to try acid again, so I guess I will go on living just to see how THAT plays out.

I am only 17, yet life already seems so endless.

I have Always Been a Turd

I don’t know how I do it, but it seems that I summon nasty emotions in even the most balanced of people. Soon I will be Public Enemy Number One, and it will feel so satisfying to finally be good at something.

I rode with my mom’s brother, who happens to be an ATTORNEY AT LAW, down to the station house on North Fountain on Saturday morning, and it was a completely surreal experience to be briefed by your own uncle on what to say to the officials under the harsh lights of interrogation. I was stoked. It seems crazy, yes, but I felt like life was starting. Wheels were in motion that I had spun without anybody else having told me to spin them, and it was causing a freaking whirlpool. My uncle, let’s call him Uncle Ben (because that’s his name, and yes, we have all cracked countless rice jokes over the years, and yes, he hates it, because yes, he’s an overly serious son-of-a-bitch with no sense of humor), seemed to notice the new light in my eye, and he gave me a look that was hard like artic ice and paused his briefing to ask me if I was having a good time. I said, hey, honestly, I gotta say, I love to have new experiences and I am kinda looking forward to seeing what this whole thing is gonna be about today. He pulled the car over so fast I had to throw my hands up on the dash to keep my teeth from getting bashed in. I was like, nice driving, rice-man. And I swear to god, the guy GROWLED at me. Like, spittle on the freaking cage glass growling, and his TEETH were showing, and he spoke through gritted molars with a hatred only barely contained, and he JABBED at me with a shockingly hard index finger right on my breastbone, and I was completely taken aback like miles and said, dude, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?

He had the look of a crazy person, his little wisps of white hair on the sides of his head kind of sticking up crazily from the wind the car windows channeled through his stuffy, old-man car interior (Uncle Ben is like ten years older than my mom at least), and he was like, “Listen to me Pendel, you little shit bag, I always thought you were a severely challenged turd the whole time you were growing up, and me and everybody else in the family is sick to death of you hurting my sister with your bullshit act.”

Wow. Seriously uncool. I had no clue what to say to that, so I just tsked him and glared and said, hey, that’s not nice. I felt completely lame and weak, but my head was so empty. I mean, he ALWAYS thought? Like, since I was a kid? Well, that’s REAL fucking nice. It’s this kind of rank horseshit that made me constantly feel like a fuck-up and a reject even before I was old enough to know that a person could be those things. My own so-fucking-called flesh and blood never even liked me, and then they all wonder how I could turn out to be such a diabolical mastermind of misdirected stomach acid. Well, they all shall pay in due time. Make book on it.

We drove on in silence from that point, except for the exceptionally GAY music that was straining itself through the lame factory speakers in Uncle Ben’s barnacle-encrusted Oldsmobile. Taylor Dane. Fucking make me gag. Easy listening. BAH! Why do they call it that?! It isn’t easy to listen to at all. It sucks donkey cock from here to the river.

By the time we got to the police station I was just freaking fuming and wanting blood but who can you get blood from when everyone around you is drained of all life? The police station was insanely florescent and buzzing, sad and depressing, and all cinderblock, white paint, plastic chairs and no magazines; why would it have to be that way? Why would I expect it to be anything else? Anyway, Uncle Rice walked up to the counter where a cop who seemed bored to the point of death was sitting and flipping through some random sheets of paper. I bet you a night with Camile that he had no idea what was on any of those sheets of paper. And he had a mustache. I fucking hated his very guts just looking at him. I knew by checking out his piggy rat eyes that he had judged so many people, and the very fact that a person could walk through those station doors escorted by fellow cops would get him thinking mean and prissy thoughts about them, maybe even wishing them dead, just as I am wishing HIM dead. What a vicious circle of wishes.

Me and my uncle were shuffled into a room with four or five chairs and a table with cigarette burns in it, which is exactly what I expected, but was very brightly lit, which is NOT what I expected at all. The temperature was okay, too, and that was strange, because I thought the whole idea was to get me all uncomfortable and disoriented until I spilled my pathetic guts. The floor had carpeting, a really short nap and institutional kind of feel on my feet, and there were of freaking course stains on it, and cigarette burns there, too, and the whole room smelled like a place I didn’t want to be. And suddenly, looking at this dumb room that smelled like coffee breath and smoke, that had almost no color to it, that was so bright that every flaw in the walls stood out like chicken pox scars, I felt so low about everything, I wondered how I had gotten here, and was I always destined to be a loser? Was this uncle of mine right? Did everybody hate me since the day I was born and feel my bad vibe pouring out of my blind baby eyes from day one?

Uncle Ben told me to sit, and I sat (hating myself for sitting on his command but what the hell else was I supposed to do?), and he told me to shut up and listen to him, and I shut up, and I listened to him as well as I could through the constant din of my own bile rising. Uncle Ben grimaced at me, and he rubbed his head in a way that everyone on my mom’s side of the family does when they are presented with an unpleasant task, like he was angry with his own head, and said to me, “Look, when Moody gets in here, don’t talk. I will talk. That’s important. Please don’t think that you’re going to make me look stupid and get even with me by saying something asinine to the police. You’re only going to hurt yourself, Pendel. Okay?”

I shrugged. I didn’t care. I was suddenly drained and felt so moronic and useless and the future was/is black and dim. I felt then, and I feel now, that I am a sham. Even in my increasingly desperate attempt at being a degenerate, I am only a poser. I have no real direction, even in my cynicism, and the worst kind of punk is the spiritless punk. I am the coasting loser. If you don’t get out of my way, I will roll right into you, but probably only like bruise your shin a little.

And so Chief Stephen Moody walks in the door, looking like a drinker but only a moderate one, and he talks by looking directly at me but gets answered by my Uncle as I sit with arms folded, pouting at the dirty table top. And you know the questions asked, where were you on the night of such and such (Camile’s house), what were you doing, (watching TV together, ha ha), when did you leave (not sure). I wanted to get up and shout, I wanted to keep spinning those wheels and keep them moving so that at least my life would have SOME purpose, even if the purpose was to be a pain in the hearts of others, I wanted to shout to Moody that I knew his son Lance, I had gym class with him, and he always got boners in the locker room and that he tried to hide them in his towel but we all saw them, and one time the jocks lit into him so bad about it that he was left alone in the corner crying by a pile of dirty, sweaty basketball uniforms, and nobody helped him, nobody asked if he was going to be okay, and I wonder Chief Moody, did your son tell you about what happened that night when he got home? I bet he didn’t. I wanted to tell Moody about it but I just couldn’t, because in the eyes of my family I had been a loser all along.

I could tell Moody hated me anyway, I know he knows I did it. He brought up the witnesses, and that was the one time I blurted anything out, I just stuck my finger in Moody’s red face and I said, “They’re a bunch of old, blind fucks! They got nothing better to do than look outside every time they hear a door slam! They didn’t see me. Whoever it was they saw it wasn’t me.”

Uncle Rice was embarrassed and told me to sit the hell down. Moody was highly amused. He stood up and told us that all this was just getting a formal statement from me, that they would talk to me more later. We stood to go, and I couldn’t believe that no one had brought up my stupid blog, but then out of nowhere Moody zooms right up into my face and says to me, with this CRAZY gleam in his eye that just screamed “I am going to smile when you die,” he says to me, “I know you gotta make your play, Mr. Haight. But you’re guilty and you know I know it. You’re too stupid to be good at this kind of thing. We have your confession already, and I know you know THAT, too. You wanna make it easy now or keep fighting us?”

Uncle Ben stood in between us and said that he thought it was time for us to leave. He told me again to not say anything. I didn’t. My cage was rattled. I felt like a 5 year old. I wanted to piss myself and cry. I am shit.

My uncle grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the station and threw me in his car. “What was he talking about in there?” I said I had no clue. “Pendel, I can’t help you if I don’t know.” I told him he was full of shit and had no intentions of helping me. No one did. I folded my arms and looked out the window the rest of the way home.

I wonder what community service will be like? What will I have to do? I hope it isn’t old people. Dear Jesus not old people.

So that’s about it. I know I rushed it, but things always seem to take so long to type out. Nothing really happened anyway, just my fate getting drawn out until I feel like it’s not even there anymore.

Oh yeah, on Sunday I made out with Patrice and her tongue was very slimy from cigarettes. It was gross, and I wished I hadn’t done it, because now she won’t leave me alone, but more on that later.