My Love for Clare vs My Desire to Destroy Benny the Hun, Part 1

My sister Clare is a being of light. Her face is small, and her slight hands are taxed with the continuous chore of smoothing her dark mane of hair. You could thread the eye of a needle with her ego, and somehow this has usually held her above ridicule. If there’s one thing I regret whenever I think about my half-baked efforts to stamp out hope, it’s the impressions I’ve left upon her. I can’t change the way I am, and I’m powerless to view the world any differently than I do (i.e., tons of random, smug, bone-smoking assholes needlessly making everything harder for all the other useless bastards of the world), but I wish she didn’t have to be a party to it.

Clare came back from high school graduation ceremonies the other afternoon. She has more friends in my stupid class than I do by far. She’s a fairly popular sophomore (I guess a junior now, technically), which on one hand makes me proud, and on the other hand drives me up a fucking wall because a lot of her friends end up being complete ass puppets. She one way or another keeps herself elevated above the din of these soul-chomping maggots, and I have to say I am in awe of her abilities, but I don’t know why she would choose to let such tit bugs feed off her like that.

The only reason I’m thinking about all of this is because when she got home, she made me feel like shit. She walked into my room while I spaced out on a Mayhem fan site, sat down on my bed, and said nothing. On my worst days I simply think of Clare as inert, so I have no problems with her hanging around, and thought nothing of it. She says, “I went to the graduation today.” I said oh joy. She asked if I wanted to hear about it, and I said I didn’t really have an interest, but if it keeps your mind off suicide, then gab away. So whatever, she drones on endlessly about a bunch of malevolent fucks that could drop dead today and the world wouldn’t skip a beat, but then she says, “Ben Henderson asked about you.” This made me turn from my computer and look at her. I asked what the fuck that spineless hunk of nasty foam could possibly have to say that I would care to hear. What she said made me more pissed than I have been in about a hundred thousand years.

“He said he bet I was excited to see you get your diploma.” Ha fucking ha. I said wow, you know, he’s a fucking comic GENIUS. I hope I’m there when he finally wins his long deserved Emmy. Fucking putz.

Clare went on: “Yeah, I didn’t play along with his shit at all, though. I told him so what if it’s taking you longer? I told him you have things he could never have, no matter how good he thinks he is.” Yes, I have a plethora of dead ends to choose from.

“And then HE said that the only thing you’ve got going on that he doesn’t is a sister to bang.” WHAT?!? “I said for him to take that sad, sick bullshit back, but he said he would only take it back if YOU had the balls to make him. Then he said if we didn’t like what he’s saying, then we should have never come to his high school to begin with.” HIS high school—what the fuck does THAT mean? That smug son-of-a-bitch has always felt he’s got more of a RIGHT to that fucking piece of shit school than we do. I will fucking KILL him one day in the very near future. I can feel it. OH GOD. My fingers ACHE to wrap around his throat.

I suppose some background at this point would be helpful: Benny the Hun Henderson is a fucking spoiled turd born with a silver spoon full of rancid dogshit in his rotten fucking mouth. His family has lived for a couple of generations in the northern part of this COMPLETELY INCONSEQUENTIAL town, and for whatever reason, they feel that this makes them some kind of half-bred, podunk royalty. What a misbegotten frame on which to drape a legacy. I mean, forget the fact that you’re sadly mistaken about your place in the world, but to do so in a place like THIS? It adds insult to idiocy. If you include the high probability of NEVER being able to explain to these people the sad state of their existence without them completely shutting down in cold denial, bubba, you’ve got a reason to go postal that no jury could fault.

My nerd family hails from the central part of town. Not so nifty—just a bunch of middle-class fuck-faces. Since my parents are a couple of self-loathing jackwads with their hearts set on a social status that they should neither desire or envy, they applied for us all to attend North High School. It was a no-brainer for Matty. He’s a complete brainiac with his head so far up the academic ass that he could never see the pissy looks he got for attending a school for which he was socially ineligible, and he thrived. But for me and Clare it was never so easy. Clare fares better, because she is a chick blessed with grace, but for yours truly there have been constant battles. Pendel the Great and Terrible has fought on the battlefield of the mind with Benny the Hun countless times.

But now Henderson has crossed a major fucking line with me. I mean, what the fuck…who cares what he says about me. I know what I am. The winds of waste are already blowing across my unmarked grave. But Clare is new. Her soul is freshly pressed. And now Benny the Hun is talking shit about HER—nasty, weird shit that can scar a person if they aren’t well equipped to handle the rigors of class warfare—and he is fucking DARING me to step out and take up arms against him.

I got no problem with it.

I told Clare not to worry. Ben will never make another off-color remark to her. I will take care of it. She can make book on it. She then scared me by getting all teary-eyed. “Pendel, don’t do anything, please. I only even told you because Sugar was standing right there and I wanted to tell you before he did so I could make sure you didn’t go all ape-shit about it.” I told her fuck that. He’s a bug. I’m an angry windshield. She got really upset and talked about how sad she is that everything has gone wrong for me, how she knows what’s in me, and how it breaks her heart to see life turn against a person she loves. “I don’t want you getting in more trouble than you are. I’m afraid if you beat up Benny that things are just going to get so much worse.” Then, to my horror, she HUGGED me and said she MISSES me and that she KNOWS I am still inside somewhere and can she please have me back. “It made me so angry not seeing you graduate, and that is YOUR fucking fault, Pendel. If you make it worse by fighting Benny, just know that it’s got nothing to do with me. I’m out of it. It’s just for you to keep fucking up YOU. And I’ll know you LIKE it, too.”

Fucking sisters, right?

She broke my heart with some of that. Clare’s the only person I’ve never wanted to reach out and crush. She’s the only human worth a squirt of piss on this whole radiation-blasted fucking rock, and I’ve hurt her.

And Benny the Hun’s gonna pay for it.

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.

I Am Screwed and I Don’t Really Care

I’ve got a shrink that I go to. I’ve gone through several of them, and mostly I just hate their stinking guts and don’t bother going back, but eventually dear old dad will have a conniption and find me a new one, and off I go for more baffling rationalizations. I think they all want me to break down in tears for them; they all want the revelation to surface from the black muck of my spiraling spirit so they can look in the mirror at night while brushing their whiter than white teeth and say to themselves, “Hey, I really DID something today.” It’s a great time. But this last guy, let’s call him Dr. Douchenheimer, he seems to have duped me into sticking around longer than I wanted to. Oh well. It does me no good, as my life just seems to spin out of control faster and faster. I mean, not even a week ago I had never tried drugs really, now I’m dropping acid at the dinner table. Before too long, I will have my very own rap sheet! How cute. How ADORABLE.

But Dr. Douchenheimer seems to have all the patience in the world for my bullshit hatred—which really just gets me even more pissed at him. With the others, it seemed like they would get as impatient with me as I would with them, and our mutual annoyance-fest made it easy for me to hit the tiles and move on to the next sensitive genius. I wasn’t giving them the results they wanted, and I WILL NOT take a handful of fucking pills everyday because who the fuck knows what that nasty shit does to a young man’s dick and his desire to use it, and I certainly do NOT want to let my guard down for even a second for fear of the creeping zombitis—the rotten and debilitating disease that has taken over the minds of so, so many in my illustrious peer group, causing them to decorate lockers and cheer for no good goddamned reason for sports teams that mean absolutely NOTHING to them OR in the large scheme of “things,” and the raping and pillaging of the village virgins goes on unnoticed under the clogged noses of the fucking swing choir, and the drama club is too busy practicing veneers to see what a joke we’ve all become in the eyes of the elders we’ve sworn to follow. And the marching band. Ha. That music sucks donkey dick when placed next to the celestial thrashing of Mayhem. Would the pills take even that sparse happiness from me? The world will never know.

So from the very beginning, Dr. Douchenheimer was very cool about my no psych-drug policy, which made me immediately mistrustful. He said he was good with me trying to fix myself without outside interference, and I was like…fix myself? Am I broken? And he said, “No, but you’re not completely well, either.” That made me blink, but I guess I’m a sucker for someone who seems to be telling me the truth, so I’ve stuck around. Doc Douche got me started on this stupid journal—although I am positive he never meant an e-journal, ha ha ha—and so the other evening when I was at his office I wanted to tell him that I started it, but first I had to get my very eventful week out of the way.

He was not pleased in the slightest when he heard about Camile’s dad’s windshield—he’s a guarded mother-fucker, though, so it’s hard to say what he really feels about the shit I pull—but he didn’t seem terribly torn up about the acid dinner; he just looked at me like the sly bastard he is and said, “I thought you weren’t into medications?” Touché, dick. After I went through the sordid details of my recent life, we talked about cries for help, and I was like yes professor obvious, I am crying for help. Help! Help! Get me out of my dork-infested school! Get me different parents! Stop the fools who run the show from rubbing my nose in their precious GOD all the time. That, of course, made him bring up the way I “degraded” Camile in church, and I was like, doc, I’m fading, you’re losing your patient…we’re losing this guy! Give him 500 cc’s of ANYTHING, stat! CLEAR. THUMP-THUMP. He backed off. I also like how he backs off. He holds up both hands as if to say, “whatever.” But that’s totally ok. “Whatever’s” cool. Everyone thinks answers are supposed to be so specific, but how can they be? Have you ever heard of dark matter? My friends (can I call you friend?), you can’t GET any LESS specific than THAT, but it seems to be all the rage among the answer-makers these days.

When he brought up Camile is when I told him that I took his advice about the journal. At first he lit up like a gasoline-soaked hobo. I suppressed the urge to feel proud that I made him happy, instead I went ahead and followed a more sensible course: I put my freaking guard UP, bubba. You see, everybody is looking out for numero-fucking uno, make book on it. It’s the third law. (1) Death, (2) taxes, and (3) get what you can. I know that Dr. Douchenheimer is constantly looking for ways to feel good about himself, and like anybody, he’s gonna take the path of least resistance, right? But the path of least resistance isn’t necessarily what’s best for patient #52728 (Pendel). No hard feelings world, but I’m onto you, and I’m not about to start turning my back.

Then I tell him that my little gut spilling is being done on the internet, and his face kinda sags, and he’s like, “What, a BLOG?” And I’m like, sure, that’s what the cool kids call it, I guess, and then he sits way UP in his chair and looks at me VERY seriously and he asks me, “What exactly have you been telling the world, Pendel?” And even before I can say the word “everything” I have that old, familiar sinking feeling. You know the one. It’s the feeling you get after EVERY FUCKING TIME you try to do ANYTHING worth a SQUIRT OF SHIT.

I guess what else is there to say? I’m sure all of you fucking cock sucking sons-of-bitches out there laughing at how I fall on my fucking face every goddamned day of my pitiful useless life knew it all along; laughing at the dumb kid in class with no fucking friends, watching him dig his own grave by moonlight as the hungry wolves sit baying on the next hill, licking their tireless lips, knowing that tonight they will feast on idiot-flesh. To hell with it. Let it happen. Bring all comers. I guess in the back of my mind I MUST have realized that Google applies to me, too. I guess I knew that the cops and Camile and Camile’s two-bit biker parents have all used a freaking search engine. I guess I knew. And I said as much to Doc Douche, I said you know, as stupid as I can be, I think I must have known, and he said, yes of COURSE you did, dumbshit (or maybe he didn’t say dumbshit), and he actually says to me, “I’m happy, really, Pendel, because it keeps me from having to feel torn about keeping a dirty secret about you breaking the law.”

Is this why I like Dr. Douchenheimer? Cause he’s got the balls to NOT treat me with kid gloves? Did I just say I LIKE him? I think I didn’t mean that. I think I mean this is why ACCEPT him in my life. Anyway, he said he can’t fully support OR disapprove of a “web log.” That’s what he calls it. Ha. It wasn’t his intention, but he’s willing to see how it plays out. I said what if it plays out with me rotting away in jail, and he just laughed and said I might be picking up trash on the curb for a summer and working to pay a hefty fine, but not jail.

He thinks golf is a great idea, but of course I didn’t tell him my full plan, and maybe I never will, cause in the end I don’t trust his dumb ass any more than the rest. He also said he thinks I ought to see what Hanson has to say to me on weekends. Fucking Christ, NOOOOOO. I do NOT like Dr. Douchenheimer.

When I got home later, Clare immediately got up and left the room, giving me the smartass little smirk she has been working to perfect over the last year. So this is how it happens, I thought. It felt much like a mob hit. In come my parents from the kitchen. “Sit your butt down, Pendel,” says my dad. I said, okay tough guy, your wish is my command. He glares, but says nothing. My mom actually kicked the leg of the chair I was sitting in, which I will admit, caught me off guard and shut me up for a second. “The goddamn POLICE called again, Pendel.” I had nothing to say. I knew it would happen regardless of what they found, the call from the cops, but my mom NEVER curses, and sure as fucking shit she NEVER BUT NEVER takes the Lord’s Name In Vain, so I know what they’ve got to say, and I know just how red-hot pissed it has made these two pious landlords of mine, and I know that maybe now I should let things play out, let them have their say. And hey, I kinda feel fucking stupid still after my “session” with my “doctor.”

So tomorrow I go in the morning to the station to answer more questions, except this time they suggest I bring both my parents AND A LAWYER. Wow. Who’d a thunk it? Little ole’ ME? With an ATTORNEY? AT LAW?? I guess I really have hit the big time. And can you believe my busy schedule?! Makes a guy feel important to have places to go.

My mom said I’m lucky to have a lawyer for an uncle, otherwise they don’t know how they could ever afford it, and then, besides just EMBARRASSING the family half to death, I would have RUINED them financially as well. I’m not so sure, you know? Seems to me it might be worth the money to not have my mother’s SCUMBAG brother bleat to the rest of the dejected extended family about my every failure. Oh well. I could win the fucking Nobel fucking Peace Prize in Penis Enlargement and they would all still find me as useless as a ragdoll.

BTW, on my way home from the shrink’s, I heard this incessant bell ringing. I looked around to see who the hell was having such a time of it to make that kind of racket, and saw that it was just this old guy riding a bike down the street. He had one of those old-fashioned girly bells on his handlebars, and he just kept flicking away at the fucking thing like it was nothing. I wondered who he was trying to warn out of his way, but there was no one. And then I saw the empty smile on his face, just utterly and completely stress-free, thought-free, memory-free, and I was like, ohhhhhhhhh…he’s a retard. How nice, to think of nothing and love your bell so much.

Pendel’s Crazy Weekend

Something insane happened that pretty much changed my life, for the best, I hope, on Sunday, but more on that in a second.

Camile is way angry at me, and I don’t really care, except that I want another shot at that ass before I’m dead. She comes over on Saturday night, and is outside my window calling to me, and I’m like, come to the door, you idiot. She says something to me like, “I don’t want your whole stupid family hearing about this.” I could give a rat’s ass what my cornhole family hears, but she’s right, they are stupid, so I let her come in through my window. I usually would have been all over her right then, but I was still pretty embarrassed about the other night, so I just sat down and looked at her, and waited for her to start flapping those dumb fish lips. I didn’t have to wait long, but what she told me kind of freaked me out. Well, first, she says that leaving my bike by her driveway was a total boner move (agreed), because when her mom and dad got home late, they thought I was still there, and stormed her room expecting to find us naked, but instead only found her looking at her nipples in the mirror. Ha ha. Then she goes on to say that her folks have called the cops about the smashed windshield thing, and that the police told them that they had received call from a person who lives next to the Do Drop In about a guy with spiky black hair and a denim vest running down the street after the person had heard a big smash come from outside. Fits my description, all right! Camile says she knows it’s me—she remembers I was wearing my rocking MAYHEM vest that night—but I’m denying it all the way. Till death. She says her dad thinks it’s me too, and he said he’s going to tear my head off my shoulders the next time he sees me. I’ve got no doubt he can do it, too. Like I think I’ve said before, the guy works down at the auto yard, and looks like a fucking gorilla. Oh well. I’m not making any friends, but I guess I’m not losing any either. Camile said that if she ever finds out for sure that I did it, she’s never gonna play with my tool again, but that’s bullshit empty threats. She’s hooked on it. Anyway, my household should be getting a call from the cops soon, cause Camile’s ape-like parents told the cops about me. Told them that I’m a “bad seed”, apparently. Piss off, I say. I’m worried as shit, but more than that I fucking hate Camile’s jerk-off old man, and I’ll get even with him one of these days, make book on it. I should have flattened his tires and sugared his tank too, while I was at it. I should have set that piece of shit car on FIRE. More on that as it develops.

Now for the good stuff. So, I guess people have seen this stupid blog, and a couple of real weirdoes have even commented with their lame-ass thoughts about what the hell I should be doing and how I should be treating my dumb-bell mother. Everyone’s a Pendel expert! I hate it. Well, one guy named Craig tells me that I should be doing drugs at the dinner table, this way I can tolerate my parent’s company without getting too angry and depressed, and at the same time they get to think they are spending “quality” time with me, and maybe they’ll climb down off my fucking back some.

Finally some advice I can use.

I have almost no friends, really, because you just can’t trust anyone. But one guy I DO hang with named Sugarbear gave me a hit of acid like 6 months ago, but I never took it because I got enough problems. He said to keep it potent you gotta keep it cold, so I put it in the kitchen freezer, behind the snowball Clare’s been keeping since the winter before last. So when I got this Craig guy’s comment, I thought about it, and then, figuring I was going to need some good vibrations from the parental units when Johnny Law comes calling in the next couple of days, I decided to give it a try. What could it hurt, really? I took the acid about an hour before dinner yesterday, and then went and sat in my room to see what would happen. I got online and was reading up on some black metal until I started feeling it.

I’ve been around Sugarbear when he’s been tripping balls, and he seems to keep it together well enough, so I figured I’d be ok. About a half hour after I dropped, I just start giggling. I’m listening to Darkthrone on their MySpace page—and it fucking rocks. Not like Mayhem, but you gotta mix it up—and the music suddenly just kind of starts coming OUT of the computer, and it seemed for the first time very strange and frightening to me, how hard and mean the music is, but so deep, like a deep river or something, and it was kind of like looking down into a bottomless river, but at the same time it was all so FUNNY. Just ridiculous. Why was I listening to these guys? What were they saying? What the hell are they so MAD about? Ha. It’s very ironic, I know, because I feel so angry all the time, so of course I KNOW why they are pissed, because everything sucks demon dick and nothing in the world works the way it is supposed to, but at the time, I have to admit, it just didn’t seem prudent to waste my energy on feeling that way. So after a minute I get past the guy singing, and I’m just listening to the music, and that’s a different story completely. Now I’m IN the river, and I’m moving with it, and the currents of sound are crazy, and they are flowing all around me, and I’m totally GROOVING on this shit in a way I hadn’t before, because I had been so focused on how pissed-off the singer is. I’m sitting there, and I’m staring at the computer with big ole’ eyes probably, and I’ve got the album up now instead of MySpace, and I’m listening through the media player, and I’m watching those visualization things, you know? With all the shit swirling around and it’s just crazy, like complete eye candy, BRAIN candy, just flowing along in the river beside me, when I feel the shake on my shoulder.

It’s my dad, and he’s like, “Hey, earth to Pendel, you want to eat dinner with us tonight?” And for some reason I am totally torqued by the idea of sitting with these nut jobs. I’m all like yeah! Great! I’ll be right down! The old man looks at me like I just grew a second head, completely not trusting me, but he lets it go. I get up to walk down the stairs and it’s all like wheeeeeee! The hallway is not like the hallway I grew up with at all. It moves and shifts with my steps, trying to throw me off, making sport of me as I try desperately to be normal. I reach out for the wall to steady myself, and the wallpaper feels like the beach. Like, I am telling you, my fingers SINK into the wall. I yank my hand back, not frightened, but surprised, right as Clare is coming out of her room, and she looks at me with a look like complete disapproval, a look she has perfected, which drives me batshit normally, but today it makes me laugh and I blow her a kiss and she just rolls her eyes and calls me a retard and moves on.

I can’t eat most of my food at all. It’s a roast or something, and at the time, the idea of eating MUSCLE just FREAKS MY SHIT so completely. Juices running and all fiberous and brown. Oh my god. No one says much to me about it, they are used to me not eating the food they provide, and I can’t bring myself to say much because I so completely distrust my mouth to even be able to make proper words, but I like PLOW through the strawberry jello like a madman, and everyone has one eye on me but says nothing, and it seems to work, you know? They seem to be genuinely pleased that I am there with a smile on my face, and my mom even says, “It is nice to see you smiling today.” And my dad’s like, “You must have gotten a letter from a new girl.” And that just makes me burst out laughing because it just makes zero sense, you know? What the hell could such a comment mean? A LETTER? What freaking year does he think this is? Well, I laugh, and then THEY all laugh, and I swear to Jesus, their faces ELONGATE when they laugh, just like, they STRETCH! Like rubber! Oh, I am freaked to the limit, and the colors of the table are so vivid, and it’s all just like popping out at me, and the jello is as red as I’ve ever seen red get, and it’s like eating essence of strawberry, the soul of strawberries distilled, and I just can’t get the smile off my face.

It’s pretty uneventful, I’m sure, the rest of my dinner, but it’s a blur to me now. A blur of glinting metal and monotone conversation that is somehow soothing, and Clare’s braces making her talk SOOOO funny. I hadn’t noticed that before, had I? She’s completely dorky looking, Calre, but I bet she ends up pretty. One of the most captivatingly bizarre 45 minutes of my life so far.

I go to my room and spend the rest of my night there. I took the stuff at like 4:30 PM, and at 1 AM I was still feeling pretty elastic. It was crazy fun. I watched my TV, Discovery Channel the whole time, just the nuttiest stuff, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you what is happening in the fucking ocean right now. I had been laboring under the assumption that I lived on earth, but apparently I have been wrong all along. I also dug out my old legos from like 5-10 years ago and blew my mind with them. I never realized how weird all those pieces are. Some are so basic, but others…they have teeth and dimples and pegs. Crazy. I made a hole out of my legos and it completely floored me. Sometime around 10 PM or so I got my iPod and a flashlight and sat in my closet with the door closed for the rest of the night. I found out something about myself in in the dark. Not sure what, but is going to change me just as soon as I work it all out. It is so insane how much you can see when there is nothing to look at. Colors, colors, colors.

I fell asleep in there. I don’t know what time. My mom came in to my room to wake me up in the morning because I was running late for school, ha. She couldn’t find me, but I heard her calling my name. I waited for her to leave, and then crawled out of the closet and walked out to the kitchen, and she was all, “Where the hell were you?” I said the bathroom. She let it go. People tend to let it go with me these days.

I told Sugarbear about my expoits. He got a kick out of it and said we’d have to drop and hang sometime. I must say, I am more than up for it. I think I will stop going to the shrink once a week and do acid instead. If I can keep from getting arrested, that is. I’m back to worrying about when the cops are going to call my house. I am so stupid sometimes that I wonder how I have made it as long as I have without falling into a toilet and drowning.

Be that as it may, something good definitely came out of this weekend. Thank you Craig, where ever you are. You’re a magnificent bastard.

Taco Night

It’s getting to the point that I really can’t tell anymore if I am changing, or if I am beginning to see the world for what it really is: a big steaming pile. Of shit. Hobo shit.

When did I stop loving my mom? Was she always this retarded? I used to cling to her skirt like lint, but now I can’t tolerate her for more than a couple of minutes at a whack. I mean, first of all, she looks like such a first-class she-tool almost all the time. I’ve seen pics of my mom when she was young, and she looks fairly cool…for the era, I guess. But now she wears these dumb jeans with that mom-wash and they all come up over her gut and the zipper is a mile long like a highway to Geekville. And then she wears these goofy, baggy t-shirts that are all like Haines Beefy T’s and tucked in for the love of God with like this ultra-square braided belt that’s all brown and shit, and she wears these thick, sweaty, fisherman socks and her clogs like ALL YEAR. Get some winter shoes, for Christ’s sake. Ugh. And the hair. I guess she just doesn’t care whether or not my dad has any interest in nailing her or not.

It drives me crazy that all these freaky fucks have kids and then like poof! They are dorks. Why must it happen? My buddy Neil’s mom gives me such a boner that I’ve gotta push it aside so I can see anything going on in front of me. How come SHE didn’t dorkify? That MILF’s ass is like a volleyball. And she wears the hottest stuff, and she’s always TRYING, you know? Like she gives a fuck about her place in this craphole world. Oh well. I guess what do I need with my pals (personal ass lickers) jerking off to my mom in their spare time? I have enough to worry about without my dad going apeshit because he catches her rocking the Serta with a 17 year-old. It’s just sad to see a person give up. She has a pretty face, I guess. Sorta.

Anyway, so my mom doesn’t seem to care about her life at all. She’s fucking wrapped up tight in MY life (or so she thinks), and in my sister’s life, and sometimes she even manages to care about the shit my dad has going on. My older brother Matt is in college now and he escaped, but mom calls him EVERY FREAKING DAY to try and insinuate herself from afar, but he only calls her back like once out of every four times. Good for him. I am so jealous of the fact that he doesn’t have to sit through Taco Night anymore, because Taco night, as an institution, is in complete freefall.

The thing is, my mom doesn’t cook GREAT or anything—she’s not a very inventive person—so I always used to look forward to Taco Night because how can you fuck it up, right? You cook the stuff and throw in the powder and mix it up and dump on the cheese from the bag after you stick it in the shell and POW, you’ve got dinner. And when I was younger, it was fun, everyone got to make their own, and since you were a kid making your own was a big thing. When I was a kid, everything made me giggle. Me, my sister, my brother, all of us would have fun doing almost anything. It makes me so sad thinking about it. I never really talk to my sister anymore and nothing ever seems to make me laugh but the mean stuff. And that’s NOT HOW I WANT IT TO BE. But I just can’t seem to help it.

I don’t laugh anymore on Taco Night. I usually make a couple and then carry them into my room and watch TV there, or blast FUCKING AWESOME MAYHEM, or look on the internet at gang stuff. Sometimes I read gun mags cause they make me think about big things. I know this hurts my mom and my dad and maybe to a lesser extent Clare (my sister), but it just irks me to no end to have to talk to any of them more than I absolutely have to. We’re all just too damn sad about everything. Well, not Clare quite yet, but she’s gonna be soon, make book on it.

So last night I my dad knocks on my door while I’m checking out some fucking boss Faces of Death clips on YouTube and he cracks the door without me saying ‘come in’ because I NEVER say ‘come in’ in the hopes that whoever wants to come in will stop wanting to come in and just go the hell away. My dad knows this and so he just comes in and it pisses me off to no end BUT ANYWAY. “Hey Sport, your mom made tacos. Make her feel good and come out and eat some, huh? Fiesta time.” I tell him I’m fine, cause I am. “Just get your ass out to the kitchen and eat a damn taco. Jesus, Pendel.” My dad only ever gives diplomacy one shot at working and then he says fuck it, which I guess I understand. I don’t even try that hard. So I say okay, whatever, and then I go to get up, but I make it nice and slow so he’s already out to the table before I’m even in the hallway (after I grab my iPod so I can rock Mayhem on my endless taco misadventure without having to hear any of them say a word…so obvious but I could care less about THAT), and I drag my tired butt out there and slam a couple of tacos together, and I can just FEEL my mom’s eyes all fucking sad and big on my back just waiting for me to say anything at all to her, with her sensible hair and her big, baggy t-shirt and her glass of wine and her lack of defining characteristics. My dad doesn’t give a shit, persay. He just thinks this is a ‘tricky time’ for me and he’s got enough going on in his life to sit back and let things pass and little does he know that things aren’t going to JUST PASS—my brain is a freight train lately and I don’t foresee it STOPPING dad, I don’t think there’s going to be any relief anytime SOON, dad—a storm is coming, FATHER, and it’s just going to keep growing until the fucking roof is torn off the unhappy home you worked so so hard to build.

My tacos are made so I head immediately back to my room, but a hand is on my elbow turning me, and it’s what I dreaded all along, and I tried not to make a misstep, I tried not to give anyone any reason at all to stop me, but it didn’t work. I tried to just keep walking like I didn’t feel, but the hand won’t give up, the hand keeps turning me. And then I’m face to face with those big sad eyes, and it makes me so frustrated and impatient but it hurts too because I don’t know how else to feel—and what, like I want to be a dick? But just LOOK AT HER. She pulls the buds out of my ears (ANNOYING) and says to me, “You forgot tomatoes. They’re your favorite. Take some, or they’ll go bad.”

Go bad. I’ve gone bad, and she knows it. I tell her I don’t eat tomatoes, and she’s like “Yes you do, you’ve always loved them.” And I try to just blow it off and head back to my hole, but she stops me still, even though she KNOWS I want out of the room, and she’s like, “You’ll make me feel better if you at least take a few, you used to love them so much, they made you happy..” They did then, they don’t now. And I hate it that she’s so wrapped up in my happiness, and I hate it that she still keeps tabs on my likes and dislikes, and maybe it would be different if she would just ONCE lose herself in something SHE likes and be a PERSON about it and have to ask me a question about me instead of THINKING she knows it all, and I look down at her empty hands because she’s always always ALWAYS the last person to get herself food, she ALWAYS waits until the rest of us have gotten ours, our greedy little paws grabbing up all we want, crumbs flying, drinks spilling, and she pretends to be so patient while inside isn’t she screaming? Doesn’t she want something? Something for herself? ANYTHING? My god, isn’t she even HUMAN?

I say to her that I don’t eat them now, because my stomach hurts a lot now, all the time, and the tomatoes make it worse. YOU eat them, I tell her. She looks at me like I’ve stabbed her. I ask her how long she’s going to wait before she eats, and she finally turns away and says some bullshit about how it doesn’t matter when she eats, cause no one wants to eat with her anyway, and that just makes me nuts. Crazed. I hate self pity in anyone but me. And I turn HER around, and I put my plate in her hands, and I say take this, eat it, I’m not hungry and I’m sick of watching you wait. She tries to push it back on me, saying don’t be ridiculous, and I’m like, no, YOU don’t be ridiculous, you’ve always been ridiculous, and I push the plate back at her, and her back at me, saying no, and ME saying no much, much louder, and of course by this point in my life I am the stronger of the two, and though I don’t mean it to happen (I hope?) the plate goes right into her chest, the food sliding everywhere, the plate crashing in the ground, and by now my dad has finally sat his ultra-idiotic Fortune magazine down and is racing over saying, “Are you out of your MIND, Pendel?”

And I tried to tell her. I did. “I tried to tell you!” I yelled back. “My stomach hurts! Jesus!”

But it’s too late. Clare is kind of crying a little. She doesn’t understand why I don’t sit around with her anymore. I don’t play. I can’t.

I wonder what we’re all going to do next week, come Taco Night?