Just a Freak

Princess

"I wish you would wear more pink."

Ah, Mom. She's so caught up in living her middle-aged life to the fullest post-Dad and post-Bobby she hasn't even realized that I'm a freak.

All she knows is that I don't wear pink.

"This baggy boy's clothing... sweetheart, you'll get nowhere."

"Please don't call me sweetheart," I murmured. It was so fake.

She didn't here me. "I want to give you a real haircut."

Again with the fucking hair.

What was wrong with it? Short, brown, messy; just the way I liked it.

Perfect for hall-moshing.

Dad? Dad's got a girlfriend and they live together in Ohio.

That's pretty fucking far away from my house. So we call each other.

He calls me Princess. I hate it. But I don't mind it. Isn't that weird?

That's just me. Weird.

My room is crazy. Mom and my house is this old colonial. Like, super old. The ceilings are tiny, for little short colonial people.

My room is this little door in the corner, and you think it's just a closet, but when you open it, it leads up to a staircase. My room is the attic, so I've got a slanted ceiling. But I have a bathroom, too. It's like my own little apartment. It's cool. I feel really secluded in it. I have a shitload of random crap, like posters of Patti Smith and Nirvana and Led Zeppelin, and a Bud Light sign, and a tire. Yeah, a tire. I like to take random crap I find and put it in my room. I don't know why.

I have a CD player. No computer. Mom's got a laptop. I think computer's are for losers.

What do I do all day? Whatever the fuck I want.

I make random crap. Clay is fun. I make random crap with clay.

I cook, too. Mom lets me crazy in the kitchen and I can cook our whole fucking meal. And it's delicious.

Homework? Easy. I can do it in, like, two seconds. I ace my tests.

My teachers only hate me because I'm a freak.

I kind of hope Mr. Geiger won't hate me. He's so hot; could he have a hateful bone in his body?

Sometimes I hear my Mom crying at night. It's because of Bobby.

She misses him a lot.

He was playing with his basketball that Dad bought him and it rolled into the street.

Just as a car was coming by.

Bobby was seven.

Nothing was the same since then. Mom and Dad split; I became more and more of a freak. The few friends I had dumped me.

Fuck them. I don't need them. They weren't real friends anyway. Just friends out of necessity.

I was always a freak; I told you.

I can distract myself.

What do I make with my clay? Random crap, I told you.

I made Buddy Holly's glasses last night.

I watch movies, too. Lots of old movies.

And biographies. Biographies are the best. Especially the ones about fucked up stars who end up offing themselves.

My CD player is shit. It's old. It's shit.

I have a bunk bed. I sleep on the top.

No one's ever slept on the bottom.
♠ ♠ ♠
Comments, please.