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I donít know how to begin. Well, I guess I just did. Maybe my childhood is a good place to start... wait, no itís not. I was a normal kid. Around the age fifteen, about to start my freshman year of high school, is when Iíll start... Yeah, soon after my fifteenth birthday (which is June fifth), my parents got a divorce. I chose to live with my mother, because my father had chosen to cheat on her, and then, he chose to move to North Dakota. That December, my mother died.
Iíll spare you the details.

So, instead of moving thousands of miles away to North Dakota (what the hell is in North Dakota? Canadian-Americans?) and living with my douche bag of a father, I stayed in Alabama and started living with friends that would have me. I didnít want to stay with any one friend too long, because then the parents would start to talk to me comfortably and I didnít like that. Basically, I was fifteen and homeless, but at least I was surrounded by intellectuals and Christians.

I mean, ignorant racists that eat crackers and drink dollar-store grape juice every Sunday. Well, actually, I noticed people around my age becoming slightly more tolerant (than the adults that raised them) of others different from themselves. Nothing groundbreaking, though. There were fewer Ku Klux Klan marches downtown, but certainly no gay rights marches.

Nearly all my friends werenít overly religious or stupid, though.
I had very few friends. Most of my friends liked to read and write, had eclectic musical tastes, and had opinions. So, none of us were very popular with our peers or our elders. Iím not saying my friends and I scared others, we didnít. We just confused them.

Anyway, I moved in first with a kid named Jack Lardon -- same age I was, but a grade ahead of me. At the time, we hadnít been friends but for about two months, but his family was rich and they had room and food to spare. His parents were really nice about it. By that, I mean they put me on a pedestal just because my mother was freshly planted and they were afraid Iíd break down and kill myself or someone else or something. Jack was an only child and was a rare breed -- a rich kid that wasnít popular... He was a smart kid, and, best of all, he knew how to play bass.

This was good because the last thing my mother bought me was an early Christmas present -- a Ludwig set with some Sabian cymbals. So we put Jackís parentís basement to good use and used it to practice whatever we felt like... I moved into his house just a few days after Christmas, so school was out until a week or so into January. So, for a solid two weeks, Jack and I jammed out in the basement, played various video games (mainly for his enjoyment), and chatted about whatever we thought we knew.

Term two started at Saldin High School, and I went back to being a freshman, except now I was taking French I, Biology I, Algebra II, and P.E. My school had a block schedule... which meant that we took four classes a day for half of the year, and then four different classes for the other half of the year -- the switch occurring over Christmas break (really, this means teachers worked twice as hard for the same pay). My classes were a breeze, but dealing with the people in them wasn't. Except for my French class, I could ignore everyone in that class simply because a girl named Lisa Teller was in there. Goddamit, was she amazing.
She inspired (yeah, INSPIRED, bitch) me to write these words down. I guess you could call it a poem. It doesnít have a title:

Her eyes explode and draw my attention away from everything else. It was like watching
a fireworks show from a distance. Alluring but out of reach. Her mouth would explode
and I'd hear nothing for several seconds. It was like watching a fireworks show
from a distance. Here I am admiring from a safe distance. Why can't I be the one
to light the fuse? Probably because I can't burn hot enough. I may as well be
ice. No chance.
She walks a few feet closer. About ten feet away now, and my vision is blurring
as if she's inches from my face. Blink, focus. Fireworks. Blink, focus. Fireworks.
Such a bright light; she was vivid against the dark night. And I couldn't focus.
Her clothing perfectly matched my self-produced metaphor--full of clashing colors
that all seemed to standout, mesh, fade and start again.

I really was and still am a lame son of a bitch. And hopeless. Hopelessly lame.


The following comments are for "Lame."
by Turney

There really is some crap on this site. This piece is the exception I think.
I liked its freshness, I got an insite into a life I don't know.
All very readable.

More please..


( Posted by: writingglory [Member] On: July 14, 2006 )

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