Mr. Hanson is a dried-up prick and I hate him with everything I’ve got. His fucking hair is like some sad-ass page boy, he’s got a crumb-filled cock broom on his nasty lip, and he’s ruining the only thing that’s cool about school, which is my science class, which I like because (1) I get to kill things and cut them up, and (2) I keep finding out how weird and endless everything is, and that makes me feel good because it reminds me that the big assholes who keep fucking up my life are really very small in the scheme of things.
I guess I should give some background. So it’s no big secret that I like to swim. I pretty much try to spend like the WHOLE SUMMER in the water because I get to forget about all the bullshit and just get washed away in bubbles and be in a different world and it’s great. Whatever. I like to swim. So what. Me and everybody else on the goddamned planet, right? My dad likes to think he’s doing humanity a favor by keeping me from exploding, so he gets me this yearly thing to the YMCA so he can say he’s keeping me interested in crap I like when it’s really just a great way to keep my stupid mopey ass out of the house and to keep me from reading up on pipe bombs.
Anyway, Mr. Hanson is the swim team coach at school. I guess he must go to the Y to swim too, or to take exercise classes, or maybe his dumb loser ass teaches something there. I don’t know. I hear if you can’t get your shit together you can always live at the Y, so maybe that’s it. My dad was dropping me off cause he was totally sick of me blasting Mayhem (who completely fucking rock balls and are so evil, I love them), and I run into Queer Hanson who says to me, “Hey Pendel, I’ve been seeing you in the pool lately and you’re pretty good, so let’s talk Monday about the swim team.”
OK. First of all, GROSS. This prick’s been watching me at the pool? WTF?!? He’s got to be hard up as shit, then, cause I don’t even wear those little fucking trunk things—fucking speedos or whatever you assholes out there call them—I wear the big baggy shit and this douche bomb’s still looking at me? I am skeeved +1000 forever.
So I’m like, whatever. But then that Monday comes and I am sitting in Science listening to Manson Hanson drone on ENDLESSLY about molecular bonds and then out of nowhere he’s like, “So maybe Mr. Haight, the swim team’s newest star, can answer our question. Pendel?” I must have sat there for like 10 seconds until what he said finally soaked in, and then I was like, is there another Pendel Haight in here, cause that sure as hell doesn’t sound like ME. And then he was all like, “Well, we’ll have to talk about that after class.” And then I was all like, yeah, whatever, Corporal Cock.
And then after the bell, I tried to slink out under the radar, but he nabs me and is all in my shit. He’s all, “Hey, what gives?” I just told him it’s cool he thinks I swim well and everything, but it creeps me out to think anyone is watching me do it, and maybe he needs new hobbies. Then this square-ass bozo proceeds to talk to me about how I am DRIFTING, and that maybe getting INVOLVED in something BIGGER than myself might HELP ME become more GROUNDED (I am capitalizing the ‘barf’ words). I said, “Hey, that’s great stuff, you should write a book.” Then he wonders why I’m being so resistive to the ‘life-line’ he’s throwing me. HA. I said, yeah, you’re throwing me a fucking LINE alright, you pervert. Wow. He got super, super-pissed at that, and started ranting about carelessness, and reputations, and all sorts of shit, so I was like, “Hey man, truly, I am just not interested in helping out, ok?” I mean, I am just not a team player. I hate my high school, I hate the people who think they run it, I hate the teachers that beat their heads against the walls inside of it, and I TRULY, TRULY DESPISE any of the dick weed students who feed off the culture and thrive on it. Sleeping with the enemy, bubba.
Long story short, I get my grades for the semester a couple of days later, and my grade in science drops from an A (the ONLY goddamned A that I have EVER gotten, by the way) to a B-. Coincidence? I THINK NOT. You are on my list, Hanson. Make book on it.
Is it me? Did I do something so fucking wrong here? What am I supposed to do now? Fuck.