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.

Trouble Now

OMG. Such BULLSHIT. The cops didn’t CALL my freaking parents, they CAME HERE. To my HOUSE. I can’t write it all now, because my dad is coming in here in about 15 minutes to talk to me. I guess if you stumble across this website today and you are completely confused, just read up on the last couple of posts to find out about how EVERYTHING SUCKS.

So this morning, I am choking down a bowl of Crunch Berries (it’s the only cereal I can tolerate lately, I don’t know why), and I’m thinking about the meeting my mom has set up with the EVIL MR. HANSON, scum of the earth, that I have to sit through later today so the four of us (me, mom, my dad, and The Scum) can talk about the “Allegation” I have made against Hanson and his punk ass move to lower my science grade because I refuse join his retarded swim team (shaved freaks, gross). Read about it here. Ugh. Why do people have to RUIN what I like by making it into a thing? A CHORE? I love swimming, so what, now we have to turn it into a goddamned competition?! Fucking people. I hate it all. What a stupid, retarded, dumb-ass, hateful, pissy, shitty, crappy world. I refuse to take part in it.

Sorry about the side track. I’m eating Crunch Berries. Doorbell rings. Everyone’s wandering around for like ten seconds with the obligatory, “who can it be at this hour?” nonsense. But my gut just dropped into my Ponies, cause I know what it’s about. I think, though, that it must be Camile’s lunatic father coming to accuse me, and THAT I can handle. I’d just look the guy right in his gorilla eyes and tell him he’s off his rocker. A liar. Stop coming here and causing trouble! And so forth. I brace for it, pushing my bowl aside, but instead of hearing angry ape cries from the doorway, I hear this low, mumbly voice I don’t recognize, and then my dad saying, “Officer, that sounds like hogwash.” And then, of course, “PENDEL!”

Officer?!? Oh no no no.

I pulled it together and I sauntered out, as cool as I can, cause I gotta play it like I KNOW NOTHING. First impressions are everything, right? The cops are already looking at me like I’m guilty (which is all so funny because I am, but FUCK IT), and my parents are watching me with complete panic, like this is it, the moment they’ve been dreading for like the last year or so, since I really started being a local downer, and we all sit around the living room, and the cops are like, “Son, do you know why we’re here?” and I play it ICE COLD. I must say, even I was impressed with me, and I am not easily impressed. I say, hell yes, I know why their here, and I told that lousy turncoat Camile yesterday when she came over to make BASELESS accusations that it wasn’t me, and her screwed-up simian father can kiss off forever, and how he knows I’m not the smartest kid on the block so he thinks he can pick on me, and how he and his low-end wife don’t like me playing with their precious little daughter, so here they see a chance to get me out of the picture for good. Man, I was on fire. I was BELIEVING it.

I had a hard moment when the cops told me they have several eye witnesses claiming they all saw a kid that matched my description, but suddenly INSPIRATION flooded my head and I said, yeah, and what time of night was that?

It was strange, though. The cops got really neutral about it all. The gleam in their eyes, the thing that made them seem like they were laughing at me, it went away, and they just closed up their little notebooks and said “We’ll be in touch.” And out they went, leaving me with my parents, who didn’t know what to think.

I think my mom is just sad. She doesn’t know what to make of it, but she’s trying hard to hate Camile’s parents for thinking so poorly of me. But I know she knows better. I am the bad seed. Matty is the pride of the past. Clare is the new hope for tomorrow. Pendel is the sad failure of today.

And dad, I know he’s not ready to buy anything yet. He’s not so sympathetic to my plight. He played baseball in high school, he debated, he had a job at night, he helped my widow grandma; he was a stand-up kid. I am a metal-loving loser.

He’s coming now. Gotta go.

Things That Are Supposed To Be Good Are Just Embarrassing

I don’t understand how all these older people get all stupid and glassy-eyed when they think about their so-called ‘glory days’ and call this shit the best times of their lives. Man, if that is true, then they are a bunch of sorry, sad-sack assholes. So much is going on that I hope I NEVER remember. If this is as good as it gets, fucking kill me.

So, my dad caught wind of my science grade dropping to a B- after Mr. Hanson screwed me ROYALLY last week. If you didn’t hear about it already, I told the whole retarded tale here: http://hellisforchildren.wordpress.com/2008/04/21/a-science-teacher-and-a-dick/. He started to come down hard on me, so I told him my side of things—about Hanson being a freaking scurvy douche bag just coaching a swim team to look at teenage boys with waxed chests—but he just looked at me like my head was a grapefruit or something. And then, to my overall AMAZEMENT, he says to me, “Would it kill you to get involved in something worthwhile like a swim team?” I was floored. I asked him if it would make him feel better to know I was shaving my legs and armpits like some kind of goddamned chick and wearing a mother-fucking SPEEDO of all things and being stared at by a mustached, crazy-eyed pedophile with a constant half-mast tent-pole rocking his Dockers, and my dad looks at me, right in the eye he looks at me, and without even smiling he says, “He doesn’t have crazy-eyes, Pendel.”

I wish I could have drop-kicked my brain at him.

I didn’t even bother to argue. I balled up my grade report and threw it in the fake fireplace and very handicappedly said that if it had been a REAL fireplace, the report card would be all gone—then I ran out of the house. I had nowhere to go, so I biked over to Camile’s house so HER dad could glare at me for a while.

As it turned out, they weren’t even there. No cars in the driveway. Awesome. She was alone watching TV and talking to her bitchy friend Patrice on the phone—Patrice drives me batshit but always rubs her butt on my dick at dances so I tolerate her well enough. I tell Camile through the screen door to get the fuck off the phone and let me in—didn’t she see my text that I was coming? She’s probably still pissed at me because of the whole church thing but I don’t care. The house is all kinds of dark except of the TV glow and I can see she’s just in her nightgown and it’s all giving me a boner. I bang on the door some more until she tells Patrice “see ya” and stomps over, pissed. “Why are you banging like that?” I tell her I’ll show her banging as soon as she opens the door, and that makes her blush and forget she’s ticked at me. The thing you have to remember with Camile is this: yes, she’s got some zits on her forehead. Yes, she’s kind of clumsy-looking around the eyes. But her ass is banging and her titties pop, and when I talk even the slightest bit sexy to her she gets all flustered and starts tugging at my belt.

So I get in the door and I’m like immediately tugging at HER. I want to get her into her room cause she still hasn’t let me tap that ass, and it’s all I’m really looking to do before I graduate and blow town. I ask her why she’s gotta leave me at the door like that when I NEED her like I do, and she’s like, “What do you want? I had Patrice on the phone.” And then she says, “She’s always rubbing against you. I know she likes you. I hate her.” I ask her what the hell she’s doing talking to Patrice on the phone then if that’s the way she feels—leaving me at the door that way—and she’s like, “Well, she’s nice.” Fucking chicks. I swear to god.

So she’s like why are you here, and I tell her the whole deal with my dad and Mr. Sleezeball Hanson and my grades and the fake fireplace and how she’s all I’ve got tonight (nice, yes?) and then she’s like, “Oh no, let me rub your back then.” And so I know I can at least get her shirt off tonight, and I’m hoping I can do more, but you never know. Camile has a tendency to get me to the verge of testicle meltdown, but then before I know it she’ll be halfway down the block, arms folded over her chest and acting all violated.

But hey, tonight it’s all good. She like, tells me to take off my shirt so she can rub my back better, and I’m like, oh you know it, and she just takes off hers, too! And just seeing her bra, which has like this lacy stuff on it like I’ve never seen her wear before, it totally kills me. The whole night rocks Mayhem style now that I can see just a touch of nipple, and I can’t get my eyes off of them, and it must show cause she totally blushes and smiles, and I’m so shocked at how easy it was to get her out of her shirt that I blurt out, “Why did you do that?” And she’s like, “I’ll put it back on if you want.” NOT BLOODY LIKELY. I hate the fact that she makes me turn over so she can, in freaking fact, rub my back, but I know that if I’m going to see more of her I’ve got to play it cool. I mean, she’s jerked me off tons of times, I think, or at least a few, and it’s all good, but I want IN THERE, YO. I have done my time, and now I want my PAYDAY. So I will be patient. I am the sex ninja, and I am poised for the kill, even if I must lurk in shadows all night.

It turns out I can only wait for like five minutes, and then I flip over so she can feel my boner on her, so she knows what she’s doing to me, and I don’t know why tonight is different, but it is, and the next thing you know we are both down to just about nothing, just our bottoms, and then THOSE are gone, and my brain is FRYING because to be honest, it’s not like I get this far every day. Then she’s jerking me again, and I’m like, let me get these boxers off, cause it will be easier, and she’s like, “Easier to what?” Fucking A. I get mine off, and while I do, she’s taking HER’S off, and I don’t even know what to make of it all, like I am totally going to blow my wad just watching her do it, cause I’ve fingered her plenty but I’ve never SEEN it, and now THERE IT IS, and it’s dark so I can’t see it plainly but I can sense it. And now she’s all like “I want to, I want to…” And I’m wondering what the fuck were she and Patrice talking about on the phone? And I’m wondering where the hell her asshole dad is, because he works down at the auto yard and he will fucking KILL me if he catches us, but she insists they are out for hours at the Do Drop In. But would I even care if they were coming up the driveway at that very moment? NOPE. So we assume what I assume is the position, and maybe I’m giving too much away here, but I’m not sure how to get it in her, I’m not HUGELY experienced, but I am COMPLETELY willing, and so I just go for it. No guts no glory, Major Woody.

Now Camile is like, “Kiss me, kiss me…” But hell man, I am trying to CONCENTRATE, you know? And I know she gets wetter than this, but I’m not sure I’m feeling it, and it all seems tighter than I would have expected, and I know Camile is a virgin, but COME ON. And she’s like, “I don’t think you’re in the spot, that’s not my spot.” And I’m like, spot? What spot?! And she’s like breathing and she’s saying, “You know, my spot…that’s not my hole.” And in my head, I’m like, what the fuck, how do I mess this up? My head is swimming, and shit is quickly building to an EVENT down there, and I look down, and I guess I’m basically, much to the chagrin of all involved, screwing her in the crease between her thigh and pelvis, and I realize she doesn’t even really have her legs open, but it’s too freaking late and I literally blow it.

What a mess.

Camile’s laughing, which pisses me off, and she’s like “Ha ha, oh Pendel, it’s ok.” And I’m just like oh great. Fuck THIS. I’m so embarrassed that I can’t even see straight, and I’m so disappointed in myself for being such a dimwit, such a wuss, so I just have to get out of there. I’m angry at Camile too, but who the hell knows why. Why didn’t she open her legs? Why didn’t she tell me sooner that I was screwing it all up? Fucking Mr. Hanson. That asshole has me all freaked out about being weird and messing with my ONLY good grade and has thrown EVERYTHING off. I will KILL him if I see him on the way home.

Camile is all crying because I’m angry during such a SPECIAL MOMENT and she doesn’t know why I’m angry, but then she must be dumber than I thought, because isn’t SHE angry? At me? For messing things up for HER? Oh well. Another rite of passage blown to shit. I feel a little bad about ditching Camile, but fuck it. If I would have stuck around I would have just been the ultimate dick anyway. In a couple of months I’ll graduate (I think) and disappear forever and she can get some other idiot to hang out with while she paints her stupid nails.

On the way home I saw her old man’s Ford Focus in the parking lot of the Do Drop In. Just looking at it pissed me off so bad that I threw a chunk of asphalt through the windshield. The alarm went off and it was fucking LOUD, and I ran all the way home. I was in bed when I remembered that I left my bike over at Camile’s. Just perfect.