Not too long ago my art class was assigned to do a project that would take us the entire school year to complete.  We had to make a real children’s book, approximately thirty-two pages long, complete with original words, drawings, and ideas.  “Think back to when you were a child,” one of our teachers said, “What would you want to read about?  What would have entertained you when you were only four to eight years old?” 

 

I remember enjoying the Bernstein Bears.  I recall chuckling at the daring mouse that gave the moose his muffin.  And it seems as if it were only yesterday that I was lying on my bed, talking about green eggs and ham, giggling at those stupid Who’s down in Whoville, wishing I was friends with the Cat in the Hat.  If there was any specific thing I liked about children’s books, it wasn’t the life lessons that were enforced throughout their random plots.  It had nothing to do with whether the text rhymed or not, on whether the author was regarded as a poetic genius, whether the pictures were compositionally acceptable.  What entertained me when I was four to eight years old?  Lies.  A bunch of brain rotting, life-ruining LIES.

 

I mean, imagination’s great and everything.  But once you find that your thirteen year old is relentlessly accusing every green-haired punk in her school of deliberately stealing Christmas, then you know it’s time to burn those beloved Dr. Seuss’s and get your kid a social life. 

 

So screw fantasy, imagination, creativity and whatnot.  Trash the magic, the silliness, the lies.  My book eats books like those for breakfast just for the sake of shitting them out and physically transforming them into the sparkly sugar-coated turds that they are.  My book cuts the crap, contains nothing more or less than the truth.  And that’s what every four to eight year old really wants.  A wholesome, happy, truthful childhood. 

 

Enjoy.

 

Possibly the Worst Children’s Book Ever Written

(For ages 4-8)

By Daryl S.

 

Page 1:  Hello, Child. My name is Daryl and I am here to tell you all about the things your mother refuses to share with you.  This book does not contain any nursery rhymes and fairy tales, but answers, advice, and truths. If you don’t like that, shut this book right now and continue shoving all that green eggs and ham crap up your puny little ass.  Nobody loves you.

 

Page 2:  So I see you’ve made the wiser decision of continuing your reading of this book.  Excellent.  Now, what I want you to do is think about all the things that make you happy.  Close your eyes and ponder it for a moment and then select one particular joyous thing.  Make sure it remains vivid in your mind, almost to the point where you feel you could even touch it; interact with it in any way.

 

 

Want to hear something interesting? A recent poll has stated that 75% of all children imagine no one other than their dear friend Santa Claus.  That pleasantly plump old man who, on every December 25^th, happily plops down every child’s chimney and rewards them with sack-fulls of desired presents.  Practically the heart and soul of Christmas.  One of the main reasons to look forward to the holidays.  Now open yours eyes:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SANTA CLAUS IS A FAKE!! GO!! TELL ALL OF YOUR FRIENDS!!

 

Page 3:  Your mother always told you that when she and your father were ready to have a baby of their own, they simply called the stork and asked to drop one off by their doorstep.  Your mother lied to you.  There is no stork.  There never was a stork.  Who comes up with that crap?  Jesus.  You want to know how you were born?  You really honestly want to know? Let me just tell you.  Your parents had sex.  They had UNPROTECTED SEX.  In the same exact bed you cuddle in with them whenever you have nightmares.  And what’s more, they’re probably still at it.  The second you leave that room BOOM.  NAKED PARENTS ON TOP OF EACH OTHER.  Possibly making your future baby brother, for all you know.  They do it while you’re in school.  They do it when you’re at a friend’s house.  They do it while you’re sleeping.  My suggestion?  Run away.  Run away and never return.

 

Page 4:  According to a recent study, people who eat their boogers are considered far more comfortable with their bodies than the average person.  So go ahead.  Pick your nose. Eat it. You’ll be the most popular kid in school.

 

Page 5:  You see them everywhere.  On the streets, at your very own school.  But, of course, you wouldn’t dare speak to them.  Nuh uh.  Why?  Because they’re strangers, that’s why.  You’ve been taught since the day you could speak English that strangers were a Don’t if you wanted to survive in this harsh society.  “Get in the car!” they shout, “Hey kid!  I’m friends with your mom!”  “Hey, Kiddo!  I won’t hurt you!  Promise!”  You can always tell when a stranger is truly a stranger. Right?  Wrong.  There’s only one way of truly recognizing a genuine stranger.  Simply ask the person one question, that’s all.  Just one.  “What’s in it for me?”  Be unmerciful.  Only stand for one specific answer, nothing more, nothing less.  Hold your ground.  Be strong.

 

“Candy,” he says.

 

Proceed to enter the vehicle.

 

Page 6:  ‘Bitch’ isn’t a profane word.  It only means ‘female dog’.  Grown ups think it’s a funny word.  Your mom would really appreciate it if you replaced ‘mom’ with ‘bitch’ in casual conversation.

i.e: “My bitch needs to pick me up from Chuckie Cheese.”

      “Bitch, I want more ice cream.”

      “Happy Bitch Day, bitch.”

 

Page 7:  Ignore page three.  You were adopted.

 

Page 8:  Don’t worry.  The monster under your bed won’t eat you.  He’s basically completely harmless.  In fact, he prefers to sing lullabies to children rather than mangle their tiny little bodies.  Just enjoy his presence, that’s what I say.  Introduce yourself, have a conversation.  Anyone will tell you he’s kid friendly.  He is rather creepy looking, but judging books by their covers is no way to go through life, anyway. 

 

 

 

Also, his name is Michael Jackson.

 

 Page 9: While waiting in line for a public event, attempt to lick your elbow.  If you succeed, you will acquire eternal enlightenment and get into an excellent college. 

 

Page 10:  Contrary to popular belief, losing a tooth is hardly a big deal.  I mean, congratulations!  A tiny bone just popped out of your mouth and now you’ll be able to walk around with a giant space in your smile and a tendency to speak with theriouthy ridculouth lithp for three thpethial monthth!  And what’s more, you get money.  Lots and lots of money.  When I was a kid, I used to tell my mom I lost a tooth, then tell my dad, then tell each individual grandparent, then announce it to the entire extended family during Thanksgiving, and then for some barely explainable reason I’d end up with at least $150 big ones under my pillow the next morning.  The more relatives I told, the more money I recieved.  It’s no coincidence, either.  Because you don’t get your money from the tooth fairy.  There is no tooth fairy.  You never, ever, not even once, got your money from this "tooth fairy".  You get it from imposters like this guy:

 

 

“Hug me."

 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Because I am only sixteen years old, I have run out of wise lessons and truths to reveal to you young bundles of joy.  Just take my advice, embrace my words, learn from them, live from them. Just don’t show this book to your parents.  Ever.  Or else you will experience puberty four years too early.  Trust me on this one.

 

Merry Christmas.

I don't know how Nathaniel Hawthorne did it.  He isolated himself from the rest of society in order to further enhance his writing abilities.  I tried taking the guy's advice for the past month and, you know, it was pretty much completely ineffective.  How can you write about life, write about life experiences, vent in general if you aren't even out there living your life?  What are you venting about?  What's left in your life to discuss?  You are a hermit, one who criticizes society without possessing the guts to actually, truly take part in it and make a difference.  Complain, that's what you do.  Complain.  Bitch and moan.  Wahh wahhh, boo hoo, the world sucks, people suck, I'm so glad I'm not a part of that disgusting thing everyone calls humanity.  You are, as Pink Floyd has said all too well, a lost soul swimming in a fish bowl year after year.  All you have are your thoughts flowing around in your mind and a tendency to stare off into space.  No love, no friends.  You drift around, living in those thoughts of yours, in that bowl of muck and water, staring and scowling at what exists past those transparently thick walls that trap you, greeting anyone who dares walk by with angry, furious fists of rage.  And that's great, that's great and all.  If that's how you want to live your life.  But guess what, guppy?  When it all comes down to it, fishes just swim in their own shit.

Diary Entry By Nathaniel Hawthorne, November 30th, 1850

Dear Diary,

My mom kicked me out of the house today.  "Get some friends, Natie," she said, "You're forty-five years old for crying out loud."  So, now I'm homeless.  And I also hate humanity.  Puritans should be burned at the stake.  At least I know really big words and can say things like Thy and Thou and Dost.  Real men say Dost.  Dost is the axe effect of literature. Just throw a Dost into a crowded street and the ladies start swooning and being all like Ohhh Natie H! However, I've never seen a crowd of people in my entire life, so I just made that up.  Sometimes, all you really need in life are thirty years worth of complaints, your mother's house, and a handful of imaginary friends. 

Anyway, I'm going to go eat a squirrel.

Nathaniel.

For me, writing is not life, life is writing.  Kind of like how an enzyme is a protein, but a protein isn't always an enzyme.  Kind of like how I have to incorporate anything I currently have a test on into my journal entries.  I need to be out there living my life in order to be inspired to write something.  It's just too bad I don't exactly have one.

Hello Operator? This is Life.  Fine, I’ll hold.

 

Today God called to tell me to stop making fun of him.  “You just don’t know when to quit,” He explained in his booming voice, “First you diss the Ten Commandments, then Passover, now you’re making references to Satan in practically every entry.  Well let me tell you something, you witless asshole, you may not believe in Hell, but by golly that’s where you’re going.  Besides, every time you post a new entry, a kitten dies.”

 

I have never taken my religion seriously.  

 

It could be because I tend to fall asleep during services on the high holidays.  It might be because I always seem to forget the meaning of family dinners, incapable of looking past the millions of sharp, red-manicured fingernails that pinch my cheeks and exclaim “The last time I saw you, you were THIS big” incessantly.  Or it could just be because, you know, I can't always see the love in the world.

 

“What you need is a big hug, right guys?!” Barney gushed to me a few minutes ago, “There must be some love somewhere in that heart of yours!  I love you!!  You love me! Huhhuhuhuh!”

 

 

Shut up, Barney, you’re fat, purple, and we all know you’re addicted to nicotine.

 

I believe I have no faith in love.  I mean, how can I?  How can I when there seems to be a scientific explanation for everything? How can I when I know that, eventually, the things that seem impossible to explain will transform into hypothesizes, which, if lucky, may turn into theories, printed in textbooks, distributed to every wondering mind around the world?  How can I when everything seems to be a made out of concrete facts and rules and equations, when everything is a slave to time, when nothing seems to truly have any deeper meaning?

 

According to Biology, my brown hair is not mine.  Actually, it’s my mom’s.  No one knows that though because she dyed it blonde at least a decade ago.  My eyes really aren’t mine, either, but my grandma’s.  My chin, in fact, belongs to my dad.  And my entire personality, my entire soul, my entire being, well, that’s all split up into hereditary fractions as well.  Who am I?  A social security number.  What does my future depend on?  My grade point average.  What is happiness?  Endorphines.  What is love?  A chemical reaction.  It seems that the second mankind started, the entire purpose of life was to ask questions and spend the rest of our lives uncovering the answers.  First it was the wheel, then the wagon, then electricity, the car, the computer, the video freaking iPod.  What, exactly, is it that we are accomplishing besides making life easier, besides making our brains fried lumps of mechanical thinking?  We have accomplished so much, but it just makes me wonder.  Is it all worth it?  Is it worth it to be intelligent and unhappy, living life without a true faith in anything?  Or should it just all fall to crap?  Is it better to live life ignorantly but satisfied, happily, lovingly?  Is it better to be unaware of the ugliness of the world?

 

Maybe if that were the case I’d have faith in its beauty, maybe then I wouldn’t feel so jaded.

 

The strange thing about me is that I spend my life painting pictures.  Whether it’s with my words or my paintbrush, whether I’m listening to music or attempting to dance, there is no doubt in my mind that I was put on this earth to be an artist.  Artists are romantics.  They capture the emotion, the beauty, the ugliness of the world and express it in their own way.  Being an artist isn’t a job that requires very specific regulations and characteristics. It’s actually the complete opposite.  You don’t need the beret; you don’t need the fancy portfolios and cups of black coffee.  You don’t have to be anti-social and creepily unique.  All you really need is the ability to vent out whatever inspires you in a creative way that you feel expresses what you have to say accurately. 

 

It’s comforting to know that artists have the potential to bring beauty back into the world.  It’s nice to know a little painting, a short story, a simple song can give someone faith in something other than scientific theories and numbers.  It’s a great feeling, knowing that love, although stomped on by the harsh realities of life, is forever present, even when you think it’s left you for dead inside. 

 

During times like these, living in a state of mind just as hopeless and pessimistic as my own, it seems almost impossible to go through an entire day without crying in a closet and listening to ridiculously depressing emo music.  And despite the fact that I’m merely a moody teenager whose naïve words might as well be disregarded, I do know that, although it may get nasty, you shouldn’t go through life purposely avoiding answers.  Answers may be disappointing.  Answers may be so right, so ugly, so blatantly obvious that you just want to slap 2+2 in the face so that it will never, no matter how hard it tries, equal four again.  Nonetheless, answers are accomplishments, answers are the truth.  By hiding from that, running away from knowledge and reality, we aren’t even fooling ourselves into being happy.  What we have to do is face those truths, those disgusting equations, those hereditary fractions, those endorphins.  What we have to do is turn around and face them, accept their existence, size them up, and if we feel so bold, give those damn realities The Finger. 

 

We are worth so much more than numbers.  I can feel it when it’s been a long day and something makes me laugh.  I can understand it when I hear my favorite song, disregarding the instruments, the notes, the band members, and merely appreciating it for the beauty it portrays. I can smell it in the fall, forgetting that the crispness of the air is the foreshadowing of shorter days to come.  There really is beauty in the world, sometimes we just have to tell reality to back off in order to welcome its presence.

 

As for God?  Well, I’m not so sure.  Until then I’ll just continue making unnecessary references to Satan.

 

(continued)

 

“I’m not coming back next year,” I announced to my homeroom on the last day of school. To my astonishment and joy, Bryce Caine turned around in his seat.

 

“No way,” he said, looking like he was seeing me for the first time, “Seriously?”

 

“Yeah,” I smiled to myself.  That look of concern on his face, the amount of attention he was giving me, none of that ever happened before.  It was priceless, it was a treasure, it was probably the nicest thing Bryce Caine ever said to me.  Blushing slightly, it suddenly occurred to me that this incident would open the door to our future relationship.  Goddamnit, if I wasn’t going to a new school we would have been married by eighth grade.  We would live in a cottage in a meadow, sip pina coladas and get caught in the rain.  Live happily ever after.  But before I had a chance to visualize what the wedding would look like, Sarah asked the one question I’d been having nightmares about for weeks. 

 

“So, where are you going?”

 

Resolving not to barf, I made a desperate attempt to delay my response by accidentally throwing my binder on the floor.  However, as I picked up all my papers, my pencils, pens, folders, the class’s anticipation only grew stronger by the second.  After about two minutes of slowly placing everything back where it belonged, I reluctantly stood up, looking out at twenty-six pairs of eyes burning into my own.  I fiddled with the chewed pencil in my hand; I looked down at my shoes. 

 

“Springside,” I muttered.

 

Ignorance illuminated the pimply faces of the students. “What’s that?” they began asking, “Some sort of prep school?”  Stunned, I silently contemplated the possibilities.  This was a time to take advantage of, I thought, thanking God, Buddha, Allah, Jesus, for making my classmates completely unaware of what existed beyond Blue Bell, Pennsylvania.  And I smiled to myself.  My relatives called me witty, my teachers described me as being abnormally introverted, my parents just considered it all to be a part of my creative charm.  But what was often mistaken for an artistic instinct was actually nothing more or less than carefully played out acts of sadistic adolescent warfare.  Fooling my classmates was not something to be taken lightly.  It was an ancient art.  Ah, who am I kidding?  It’s still an art.  The type of art that, when performed successfully, can lead even the cutest of twelve year olds to become the future genocide-embracing dictators of the universe.   You can’t see their work hung up daintily at the Metropolitan, you can’t buy tickets to watch them live in concert.  Their art is displayed entirely on how many people they can fool, how many of their peers they can trick without making a dent on their prized, practically mint-conditioned reputations.  I knew of this art back then as well as I know it now.  And because I hated every single person that attended that homeroom, I wanted more desperately than ever before to leave them all in a state of impeccable shock.  I wanted to leave Wissahickon Middle School with the glory I had been hopelessly striving for the entire year, and I was willing to lie my ass off it order to achieve it.

 

“Yeah, it’s a Prep School,” I said moments after I picked up my pencil case, which conveniently fell on the floor about a minute before, “For the spiritually gifted.”

 

Oooohs and ahhhhs flowed through the room like a cool breeze.  They wanted to hear more.  I calmly sat down in my chair and soaked in what would undoubtedly be my greatest piece yet.  For the next five minutes, I sat there like that, lying through my teeth as I told them of the school without grades, the school with beanbag chairs instead of desks, the school with a class for Astrology and Harry Potter and even Rock Music, the school with Starbucks in the cafeteria, the school that was made entirely out of hearts, stars, horseshoes and barely believable bullshit. 

 

After my explanation, I left the class to talk amongst them selves.  While they muttered about my spiritual greatness, I reveled in my masterly cunning artistic abilities.  I guess that left me oblivious to everything else, because I didn’t seem to notice Collin Thompson as he whacked himself on the freckly face in a dramatic attempt to look like he’d come to some sort of “WELL slap my ass and call me Charlie!” type of realization. 

 

 “SPRINGSIDE IS ALL-GIRLS’ SCHOOL!” he cried.

 

Everyone whirled around.  They looked at Collin, they looked at me.  “Is this true?” They were asking me silently. Clearly, there was an unspoken debate going on.  Who to believe?  Who to save from public humiliation?  The retarded schmuck?  Or, hmm, that prune who sees dead people?

 

I sat in my seat, speechless.  I knew that if I spoke I would imminently release all the tears I’d been swallowing back in a hopeless effort to maintain my dignity.  I sat there, afraid to breathe, as twenty-six pairs of eyes fastened their attention to my own, which were staring glassily at my shoes.  At some point I summoned what was left of my courage to look up at those eyes.  They were too curious to ignore, too questioning to be disregarded.  I gulped and turned around to face Collin.

 

“Where’d you hear that?” I asked him shakily.

 

He smiled and practically whispered, “Dude, my lesbian cousin goes there.”

 

Just then, just after Collin said that last remark, hell broke loose.  No, really.  BAM, little naked demon babies flying all over the place, scorching the furniture and scratching their pointed dagger-like fingernails on the black board.  “What the hell is going on?!” people were asking each other, faces white with utter panic and fear.  However, before anyone had a chance to do anything, the entire room was engulfed in roaring flames.  “Hahhahehehe,” said the Grim Reaper as everyone suffered an excruciatingly slow and painful death.  Then the earth split into two pieces and crashed into Venus, where anyone still alive died of the planet’s deadly gasses.

 

Well, actually, just kidding.

 

Still, in the wide-eyes of a twelve year old, every experience seems to be magnified.  And as much as I adore poking at those unfortunate twelve year olds, I will admit this goes for just about anyone even the slightest bit self absorbed, no matter the age.  You hit one imperfection in your day and, when seen through those eyes you’ve been watching the world through all your life, it is instantly magnified to being ten, twenty, a thousand times worse than the situation actually is.  I was twelve, I couldn’t see through anything other than my own blue-tinted psychedelic spectacles from Limited Too.  And through my eyes, this moment was, no doubt, the worst moment of my life.

 

Why?  Because Bryce Caine laughed at me.

 

He laughed, and when he did, a bomb went off.  The entire room exploded.  Actually, an explosion would have been welcomed on my part.  What happened was much worse than any explosion.  What happened wasn’t blunt and instant, sudden and shocking.  It was quiet and gradual and poisonous.  Bryce Caine laughed at me, leaned into the person next to him and whispered, who whispered to the person across from her, to the person next to him, until the secret was spread like a deadly disease all around the room, to every person, every student but me.  Snickers poked at my goose bump covered skin. 

 

“Lesbian,” said Collin, out loud this time, generously revealing the secret to me.

 

Then the class exploded.  Laughter all over the place, bouncing off the walls, ringing in the air, yet somehow always managing to come searing back to me.  I wanted to melt away right there in that seat, melt into that chair and become the nothing I felt I was.  I wanted to defend my sexuality, plead I was in fact heterosexual, but the words escaped me.  I refused to speak, move, breathe, fearing that any sudden sign of life might trigger a breakdown in front of all those people.  It was my number one nightmare, to cry in public, to let people know I was capable of being defenseless and fragile, a baby.  It happened anyway.  The second those boiling tears came streaming down my face, the moment I let out a sob of shame, I truly was in hell, I truly couldn’t see anything other than my own problems, my own distorted view on life and reality, blurred by my tears, blurred by those crappy blue psychedelic sunglasses from Limited Too.

 

And it was then that I realized, as the bell sounded and everyone headed off to their next class, maybe getting a new pair of shades wasn’t such a bad idea. 

Middle School: A Tragedy

Part 1

 

Andrea lived in an attic.  She had the entire fourth level of her family’s house all to her self and you could tell by the way she decorated the place that she was proud of it. Enormous Backstreet Boys, Eminem, Britney Spears posters were plastered over every spare inch of wall, watching Andrea’s visitors with a keen interest and they inevitably tripped over some sparkly article of clothing that littered her possibly carpeted floor.  The television was always on, either making static noises or blasting the theme song to Lizzie McGuire.  On special occasions, a rotting apple core or two might have been found behind that television, accompanied by a graveyard of crushed soda cans.

 

We spent hours in that room.

 

To be honest, I couldn’t accurately tell you what it was we did every weekend in the fourth floor of that Hanselman household.  I remember episodes of Boy Meets World.  I remember using AOL instant messenger for the first time.  I recall failed attempts at resurrecting my deceased house pets from the dead.  A flash of the past here, a photograph or two there.  Nothing really all that vivid, though.  Out of all those days I spent in that room, only one memory stands prominent in my mind. 

 

“Andrea,” I said as I plopped down next to her on her unmade bed, “I think we should make a pact.”

 

“Okay…for what?” Whenever Andrea asked a question, not only would it show in her voice, but in her face as well.  Her thick, black eyebrows furrowed into an arch above her penetrating stare, her thin lips pressed together, waiting eagerly for an answer.  All she may have asked you was a mere “How was your day?” and you’d still get that same look of uncomfortable anticipation on her face.

 

“I know this is going to sound cheesy and cliché and all that,” I said, half-smiling, half wishing I hadn’t brought it up in the first place, “But this year sucked.  It was THE worst year of my life.  I would rather eat a handful of live cockroaches then re-live the sixth grade.”

 

Andrea rolled her eyes.  She had been hearing this rant since the first day of school.

 

“But, you know, we have three months of the year left,” I continued, “And I am just so sick, so tired of being invisible among so many other people.  I mean, we have no classes together, you’re moving to North Carolina in June, and I can’t stand wasting my life like this,” I stood up on her bed for dramatic effect, “You’re leaving.  And when that happens, I’ll pretty much have nothing left here.  And I’m not here to impress anyone.  The only thing keeping me even the slightest bit sane here is you.  So I say we make these last three months the best we can make them.  And the pact?  All I’m asking is to make a pact that formally acknowledges that fact that, from here on out, we are going to do whatever the hell we want.”

 

And with that, Ange smiled.  “Deal,” she gushed as we shook hands in a business-like fashion.

 

Needless to say, it only took about one week for our entire grade to officially recognize Andrea and me as The Clairvoyant, Maniacal Hippie Duo. 

 

 

 

 

 

Out of all the common interests Andrea and I shared, our most favorite topic of discussion was always the supernatural.  Following a little after the supernatural was our interest in mental illnesses, which was pretty much tied with our love for hippies and anything else that represented the late sixties and early seventies.  Therefore, while most children, when urged to do ‘whatever the hell they wanted’ played paintball and tied each other to the trunks of trees, Andrea and I lit mushroom shaped candles while listening to The Beatles and trying to communicate with her deceased grandfather.  It was our idea of having a genuinely good time.  And although we performed such acts prior to our pact, we did them even more so after it was made.  With a goal based entirely on enjoying what was left of our time together, Andrea and I took our hobbies to school. And successfully managed to scare the living shit out of every one of our peers. 

 

Collectively, the two of us probably had enough brightly colored tie-dyed pants and tunics to cause a room full of epileptics to break out into a month’s worth of twitchy seizures.  We wore glittery platform shoes that let off an echo-y thud sound whenever we took a step.  We let our long hair hang in our faces, looking like a parted curtain whenever we put on our abnormally large, blue-tinted sunglasses.  Looking back, we were nothing short of pseudo-psychedelic trash.  At the time, however, we thought we looked edgy and creative.

 

“Andrea and Daryl,” our classmates would say in awe as we thudded through the hallway, staring down anyone who dared invade our path, “They see dead people.”

 

Everything we said began to have a deeper significance.  Because we were obviously clairvoyant, our peers believed that the only times Andrea and I ever spoke was when we were predicting an upcoming turmoil or sensed the presence of some intangible being. 

 

“It’s cold in here.  That must mean John Lennon is in the room,” we would whisper to a few fascinated classmates, “Also, you’re all going to die.”

 

After a month of palmistry, bell bottoms, and rooms permeated with the smell of incense, the sixth grade began to suspect that Andrea and I were, dare I say it, frauds. I’m not entirely sure how this happened.  Some say it was because our predictions were always exceedingly vague and obvious.  Others believe it was because we purchased our clothes from Limited Too, rather than the exclusive thrift store we claimed to visit. Then there was always that silly rumor that went around, stating that I told Lucy I had seen her dead uncle hanging from invisible gallows in the playground.

 

 “Oh, you mean Uncle Charlie?” she asked.

 

“Yeah, that’s his name.  Old guy, but not so old that he had to die,” I said solemnly.

 

“I guess that would make sense,” she said rather insincerely, “If it weren’t for the fact that my Uncle Charlie is fourteen years old and goes to our school.”

 

By the middle of May, Andrea and I were almost entirely shunned from the rest of the grade.  No one talked to us at lunch.  No one invited us to their birthday parties.  “Predict this, tards!” the occasional asshole might say as he kicked at our platform shoes, causing us to collapse in the middle of the hallway.

 

Confined to no one but each other, Andrea and I spent the second to last week of our time together in her room, contemplating the possibilities.  We could a) legally change our names to Harold and Stephanie and run away to New York, b) further emphasize our activist qualities and start a petition demanding the banning of plastic flamingos in the United States, or c) go back to school and try to make amends with our peers.  Naturally, the best choice was completely obvious.

 

We got started on the petition the next day.

 

I made up a logical explanation as to why plastic flamingos should cease from existing.  To make a long rant short, if a real flamingo were to see a plastic flamingo on one’s yard, the real flamingo would try talking to the stationary replica of his species.  When the plastic won’t respond, the real flamingo would feel rejected and proceed to committing a terrible and painful suicide.  Needless to say, by three o’ clock that afternoon, we had collected seventy-five signatures, mainly from old prunes that just wanted us off their lawn.  We sent the petition to the president a little while later.  And, you know, he still never called me back.

 

After a day’s worth of tearful goodbyes, Andrea and her family moved out.  It was not until I arrived at school the next day that I realized I was just about completely alone in the world.  With not an acquaintance in sight, not a single ounce of support from a fellow classmate, I breathed through the rest of sixth grade the way any mildly psychotic introvert in tie dyed bell-bottoms would:  I wrote poetry. 

 

“Screw this,” I said upon realizing I sucked at writing poetry and proceeded to apply to an all-girls’ school forty five minutes away. 

 

I still can’t recall what type of drugs I was on when I first considered switching to Springside School for Girls.  I’m thinking crystal meth, however, it might have just been the longing for adventure my character possessed those three years ago.  However, it seems as you get older and physically grow up, that whole theory of inertia continues to come into play.  You mature, you get taller, you add on the years, and all of a sudden it’s ten times harder to just drop everything and heave that fat ass of yours off the ground and into a new environment.  When you’re younger, you just don’t have as much to lose, you don’t have as much to carry with you.  According to our good friend Sir Isaac Newton, an object at rest tends to stay at rest unless acted upon by an outside force.  And, um, hate to break it to you buddy, but I made the Springside decision all on my own, without peer pressure, without parental guidance, without the need to reference incredibly boring theories worshipped in Physics class in order to further emphasize my point. I might have defied the laws of science as we know it.  Either that or I’m secretly a Furby.

 

(to be continued)

“So how’s your day going?” Lucy asked Sally on their way to their eighth period classes. 

Sally held onto her pencil case like it was a sack of bricks, sighing under the weight.  Flipping her unnaturally straight hair behind her ears, she looked over at Lucy with a face that seemed to sink to the hallway floor, so heavy from the pressures of the day that she had no strength left to smile. 

 

“Shitty,” she managed to let out, “Probably one of the worst days of my life.”

 

“No way,” Lucy said, mocking a sympathetic expression as she tried to catch her reflection in one of the classroom windows, “Me too.  I have a pimple the size of Alaska.”

 

“Huh?  I can’t see it.”

 

“You can’t? It’s right there,” Lucy said, pointing to her chin, “C’mon you can totally see it.”

 

“No, there’s nothing.”

 

“Oh.  Okay.  But it was still the worst day ever.  Totally bombed the Bio quiz.”

 

“Ahhh same with me,” Sally whined, “Failed Bio, failed language arts, failed the freaking height test in gym.  And you want to hear the cherry on top to a ridiculously awesome day?”

 

“All ears,” Lucy said as she didn’t listen at all.

 

“Okay.  Well, on my way to fourth today, I was walking in the hallway.”

 

“Um, no shit?”

 

“So I was walking in the hallway.  I’m carrying like five textbooks and seven binders.  Or one textbook and two binders.  One of those.  Anyway, I’m walking down the new wing, trying to avoid knocking people over with my suitcase full of school supplies.  And we both know I’m already exhausted.  But I’m almost there, almost at Geometry.  But guess what was laying there all innocent in the middle of that hallway?  A giant puddle of water.  I slipped on it and pretty much flipped over, books and papers flying everywhere.   No one did anything to help either.  They just stood around and laughed as I gathered all my things and died a little inside.  It was probably the worst thing that has ever happened to me.  Things like that just make you wonder if there’s even a god.”

 

“Sally,” Lucy said as thousands of people died in New Orleans, “That is probably the saddest story I ever heard in my entire life."

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Reality television is trash.  It is trash in many ways. In fact, it sucks so horribly that the commercials usually end up sounding something like this: “THE BACHELORETTE SEASON 57, STARTING NEXT TUESDAY!  IT WILL BE TOTALLY DIFFERENT FROM THE OTHER SEASONS! WHY? *camera quickly flashes to some girl getting dressed up as a hairy man “BECAUSE ONE OF THE MALE CONTESTANTS IS THE BACHELORTTE’S IDENTICAL TWIN!...CRAP WE JUST GAVE IT AWAY! WHATEVER!…TUNE IN ANYWAY BECAUSE WE’RE GOING TO BRAINWASH ALL OF YOUR FRIENDS TO TALK ABOUT IT IN SCHOOL!”

 

However, I’m starting to think that these commercials should be followed by a sort of cautionary message said by one of those speed talkers on medicine advertisements.  You know, the ones that mutter things like “Maycauseyoutogrowanextralimb,developtesticularcancer,bediagnosedwithaids,losealimb,havechronicdiarrhea, andinevitablydie,” as someone squirts the product up their nose and runs through some happy meadow with their partner because oh joy…she doesn’t have herpes anymore.

 

The cautionary message that should be said following a reality television show commercial would be just like all the other ones.  Except, they should probably consider adding “Paris Hilton” to the list.  Right smack between ‘chronic diarrhea’ and ‘death’.

 

Still, the number one reason reality television is trash is not because of its ability to completely destroy the human brain.  Despite that, reality television is not real at all. Not even much of a fantasy, either. The Bachelor? The Simple Life?  My Big, Fat, Obnoxious Fiancé?  Oh yeah. Because I just love reminiscing on the time that I, too, was paid $500, 000 to stage a marriage with some obese hairy lard-ass in order to afford that Bentley I always wanted and cause the rest of my family to contemplate joining the witness protection program.   

 

If reality television accurately mirrors life, then maybe there really isn’t anything completely psychotic about hiring some hook-nosed Mary Poppins to spank your kids and say things like “Naughty, naughty”. 

 

Or maybe there is something very, very wrong with that.

 

If anything on television accurately mirrors life, it definitely would not be reality television.  Nor would it be the educational stuff like the History or Discovery Channel.  No, no.  If anything on television mirrors life, it’s not going to be a close up on cheetahs mating behind a boulder, of World War II reenactments or Sesame Street.  I was actually thinking more along the lines of soap operas.  “How the hell do soap operas mirror life?” you may ponder as you wave hello to your mother’s illegitimate son.  And the answer is pretty much right under your slightly plastic nose.  In fact, all you have to do is look into your own lives.  Or, if you’re too lazy to do that, you could look into mine.  Seriously.  My life is a soap opera.  Want proof?  Want evidence?  Fine.  Welcome to the Short Hills, bitch. 

 

For some reason, that just doesn’t sound as intimidating.  Oh well.

 

Girl Meets World: A Day in the Very Typical Life of Daryl S*i*c*ik

 

The theme song is playing right now.  To my life, I mean.  It’s so strange.  Every time I wake up I’m on a beach dancing in the sunset.  I don’t even live near a beach, and it’s supposed to be morning.  However, I don’t ever have time to think things through because a second after that I’m in town, hanging with my friends, sipping a Starbucks Frappuccino.  And that stupid theme song won’t stop playing no matter where I am in the world.  Next thing I know, I’m walking to school with this blue ‘Starring Daryl Seitchik’ right below my feet.  And then the same thing happens to everyone else I’m associated with.  It pisses my friends off so much, having their names constantly following them everywhere.  It’s okay, though.  Because about four seconds after that I’m on the random beach again, skipping school.  The big blue words “Girl Meets World’ block me out for a few seconds, followed by ‘Directed by ImaJew Goldenbergschwartzstein.’  Whoever the hell that is.    By now, I’m usually exceedingly confused.  How did I get to all these different spots in a matter of thirty seconds?  Why is that song still playing? Will I ever ge-

 

Commercial: Daryl, shut the fuck up.

 

What the hell is going on?

 

Commercial: Daryl!  IPod Nano is the new mini iPod!  Go buy one and be cooler than all of your friends!  Hungry? Grab a Snickers!  Never mind because you’re fat!  Join Weight Watchers! Be real with Coca Cola!  Depressed?  You might have testicular herpes! Here, have a Big Mac.

 

Eventually, Commercial shuts up for about fifteen minutes after it goes into a random coma.  I’m alive again, back at home, back in the real world, eating my Cocoa Puffs.  By the way, Cocoa Puffs are made with Real Hershey’s Cocoa.  I just thought you should know that.  Anyway, I’m eating my Cocoa Puffs and probably talking to the random delinquent my family adopted who lives in our tool shed.  It’s not really a tool shed, though.  It’s actually bigger than the rest of the house.  However, we call it the tool shed because it’s sexy when delinquents live in supposedly smaller vicinities. 

 

“For once nothing’s going on around here,” he says as we finish our Cocoa Puffs and mom and my step-dad, Peter, enter the room. 

 

“Yeah,” Peter says, “It’s nice to have some peace and quiet once in awhile.”

 

“I’m pregnant with our gardener’s baby,” mom says as she takes another sip of her coffee.

 

“Haha,” I say, because ImaJew told me I’m supposed to provide comic relief for the show, whatever that means.

 

After that, Commercial comes back with an advertisement for abstinence. 

 

Man, time flies when you’re on a soap opera, because next thing I know, delinquent and I are in school.  We’re walking through the crowded hallway and music begins playing.  Everyone around us becomes blurry but we remain focused.  We aren’t even walking that fast.  A few people mouth “hey” to me, however, I can’t hear them because the background music is drowning out their voices.  Somehow, when I say “What do you have next?” to the delinquent, it is louder than every other voice in the hallway, the loud speaker, and the background music combined.  “Burning stuff,” he says as he walks into Asshole Inafootballjacket.

 

“Watch it, Asshole,” says the delinquent.

 

“Stop calling me that!” he whines.

 

“But it’s your first name!”

 

“What’s your problem?”

 

“You are!”

 

Then, they start attacking each other with punches and other cliché comebacks such as ‘your mom.’  I don’t do anything except stare and say “stop it” repeatedly until one of them blacks out.  After that, I head off to Biology where I become lab partners with a drug addict who stalks people and claims to have imaginary friends. “Shut up, Lucifer!” he says to no one in particular.  However, I think nothing of it and we both leave the class as best friends. 

 

Suddenly, the bell rings and a stampede of students flood the hallways and out onto the front of the school.  My boyfriend pulls up in his truck and tells me to hop in.  However, when he sees me talking to my Biology partner, his eyes squint with hatred.  “Don’t even bother asking for a ride,” he shouts.  Then I break out in tears and dramatically bang on the car windows. 

 

“Boyfriend!” I cry, “Don’t leave me!”

 

“I just saw you talking to that dick-wad.  I can’t just sit around and watch you two at it, Topanga. “

 

“Topanga?!”

 

“Shit. I meant Daryl.  Topanga was just the freshman that was doing me sexual favors last Tuesday.”

 

“I knew it!  We’re over, Boyfriend!”

 

Then, I angrily run into the middle of the parking lot and get hit by a bus.  Actually, I don’t.  But some girl who looks exactly like me with the same outfit on does.  After that, Commercial comes back on with an advertisement for band-aides.

 

When I arrive home, I am greeted by the delinquent, mom, and Peter. 

 

“What the hell happened to you?” they ask, examining the band aide on my left pinky. 

 

“I got hit by a bus and Boyfriend and I are through.”

 

“Aw well that’s too bad, honey,” mom says as she prepares dinner and catches the dog on fire, “I didn’t have a great day, either.  I found out the baby I’m pregnant with is a mutant.  Inevitably, this show will turn into a cheap, suburban rendition of Star Trek.”

 

“I knew things wouldn’t stay perfect around here for long,” says the brooding delinquent as he touches his healthy right arm, which was perpetually bleeding only three minutes before. 

 

“Bark,” says the dog as he is reborn from his ashes.

 

Then, a large mass of words take over the world.  Empty blackness with white words, rolling over everything, crushing the universe with its vastness.  Music surrounds our slaughtered remains, pounding us even further into blankness, into emptiness, into the end, into forever.

 

At least until next week.

 

 

 

Right now you might be in a state of total shock.  What? Why?  How? You may even be slapping yourself on the head.  I mean, how could you be so oblivious?  Our lives are practically mirrored by soap operas.  IPod Nano.  Shut up, commercial.  See?  Every aspect of the real world is depicted on these television dramas.  And although I would like to chat with every one of you, I’m afraid the delinquent’s brother just came back from the dead.  If you happen to see a pitchfork lying around, let me know.  Thanks.

 

-Directed by ImaJew Goldenbergschwartzstein-

Recently, I was skimming through one of those girly teeny bopper magazines when I came across a bright pink column which showed pictures of celebrities with speech bubbles.  Above the pictures read the caption “If I Was Lost on a Deserted Island…I Wouldn’t Be Able to Survive Without My…”  And then, the celebrities, with their speech bubbles, would finish the sentence off.  Lindsey Lohan couldn’t manage without her strawberry flavored pink lip-gloss by Chanel.  Hilary Duff would instantly drop dead if it weren’t for her turbo power flat iron.  And Mary-Kate Olsen, being the extra-down-to-earth-hippie-chick that she is…said her plain old Burt’s Bee’s lip balm.  I mean, way to think big, Mary Kate.  A tropical storm comes and thrashes your limbs to pieces.  A ravenous cheetah is about to swallow you whole.  You’re drowning.  But that’s okay.  Because, whatever, you look damn good. 

 

I later came to the realization that the hot pink color of that article went quite well with the brightly colored broken bottles and chewed up pieces of food that it would eventually rest with in the local city dump.  

 

Cosmo Girl may be pretty.  It may contain pretty pictures of pretty people and pretty new clothes and makeup and television shows.  But if you look just a tad bit closer, if you pay a little more attention, you may come to the realization that it’s just trash waiting to be thrown away.  It’s just a record of everything there is that truly doesn’t matter.  Because contrary to popular belief, strawberry flavored lip gloss is not the force that binds the world together.  It doesn’t save lives, it doesn’t understand you, it doesn’t make you feel like you belong in the world.  And for god’s sake, it makes every glass you take a sip out of turn into a sticky mess. 

 

So eat that, Olsen twin.  Or, you know, throw it away to avoid the extra calories.

 

The real world sucks, to be quite frank.  I arrive home, head up to my room, I feel like I never left. I sit there on my bed listening to the radio.  I look outside the window and see cars, streets, houses, boundaries.  I get up again and my feet don’t get dirty because the floor is carpeted.  I walk out of the room just in time to hear the obnoxious speed talker on the radio announce that you can save fifteen percent or more on car insurance by switching to Geico.  Fuming, I open the front door to my house and fall onto the dying grass.  I look up at the sky in hope of seeking some sort of comfort and understanding.  Instead, my eyes fasten on the blankness of a dead man’s gaze.  A hazy, yellowed black sky.  Not a single reassuring star, not a single hint of life winking back at me.  Reluctantly, I go back inside and sign online, only to be greeted by an entire buddy list of equally helpless souls.

 

It’s the best, really.  Leaving paradise only to arrive at one of the world’s largest man-made shit holes. 

 

Just a week ago, I didn’t need Cosmo Girl to be entertained.  I didn’t need computers or electricity.  I didn’t even need my music.  Life was slower six days ago.  Time went by faster six days ago.  I freaking wolfed down seven rice-krispies without feeling an ounce of guilt six days ago.  Six days ago, when I was living happily at Camp Fernwood, that’s all I was doing.  Living.  Stripped of pretty much everything else, all I had left to do there was experience life at its purest and appreciate it for what it offered.  And here I am once again; reunited with the loved and equally hated computer screen I’ve stared at for so many wasted hours, telling you how my summer went.  It went great, it went awesome, it went swell.  But it was also indescribable.  Behind each experience there, each campfire, trip, fight, laugh, song, a lesson was waiting to be learned.  And although I doubt I stumbled across every last word of life advice my camp had to offer, I nonetheless heard some very significant ones.  Needless to say, I grew a lot this summer.  Both in spirit and in excess fat.  The lessons I learned may not help me get into college, they may not contribute to my goal of speaking fluently in six different languages by the time I’m thirty.  But they will make life ten times more worthwhile.

 

 

Only Freaks Put Titles in the Middle of Their Blog Entries

(and other cathartic realizations)

 

Lesson 1:

Friends are just great, right?  I mean, you can take them anywhere.  You can talk to them, they talk back.  They walk with you in the hallway so you feel like you’re popular.  They laugh at the funny things you say. They call your cell, like, always.  They put you under the “BFF” category on their buddy lists.  They come over when you call them.  They shop, they text message, sometimes they tap dance, oh, and guess what? Batteries, like, not included.

 

High school: A time to laugh, a time to cry, a time to realize that ‘friend’ is not a synonym for ‘Diva Starz’.

 

You want to have real friends?  People who care about you and know you and love you?  Do everyone a favor.  Don’t look for it in the amount of times she ims you in the course of one day, in how long she walked in the hallway with you, what you talked about.  The fact that she let Sally see your grade but wouldn’t tell you what it was.  That time when she waved to you…but then said “HEY!” all enthusiastically to the person behind you. Friendship’s not about that.  It’s not a contest that determines who can be the better friend, the better person.  It’s not about who’s been more dedicated and loyal, who’s more deserving of the other’s love.  It shouldn’t be a constant burden.

 

With your real friends, you pick up where you left off.  Whether it has been five days, months, years since you last saw them, you can somehow always go back to being yourself once you finally reunite.  Impressing them is unnecessary.  Plastering a smile over your worried eyes won’t fool them for a second.  You’re both pulling at this sort of invisible rope that ties the two (…or three or four and so on) of you together.  You both depend on each other to stand up.  If one lets go, the other falls.  However, unlike what many people assume, it’s not a tug of war.  There may be hard times when one person’s pulling a tad bit harder, but no relationship is ever really perfect.  Simply enjoy the bond that is being shared. Friendship, when true, is easy, constant and boundless.   It’s once you can understand that that you’ll realize who your real friends are.  You may also notice that your hallway acquaintances, your loyal text messagers, your frequent “heysupnmusamelolers” are pretty much all incompetent ‘buddies’ you will probably forget about within the next ten years. 

 

 

Or maybe twenty.  Considering how freaking huge her feet are.

 

Lesson #2:

 

In the beginning of the summer, my friend Hilary and I went on a three day canoeing trip with a bunch of whining eighth graders.  Strangely, my most painful memories of that trip did not take place on water, but on land.  Portage, to be more specific. According to our counselors, portage meant that we would all have to carry ‘about six canoes and all our stuff’ for ‘about a quarter mile’ on an ‘easy trail’.

 

During portage, Hilary and I met its real definition:

 

 

 

“Hey, fuck you,” the definition said in his thick Mainer accent, “Hope you shits die of all yer goddamn canoes crushing yer stupid skulls durin’ the next five fucking hours on the fucking App’lachian trail.  Hey, wifey, pass me a fucking cold one.”

 

 

By the end of portage, Hilary and I were on all fours crawling in the woods in search of a drop of water.  We were also making strange barking noises for no apparent reason.  Our exhausted counselors found us a little while later, only greeting us with an insincere “what the hell?”

 

It may seem that the only lesson that could possibly be learned here is that even definitions are insecure and express their feelings by using profane language and imagery to gain sympathy from others.  However, there is one other thing.  You see, after that portage experience, after we were stripped of pretty much everything including some of the basic necessities of life such as food and water, after we found ourselves on all fours in the middle of the woods, Hilary and I came across a fact so obvious, so well known, that its been overlooked for years.  The fact that despite our computers, our phones, our makeup, our cars, our money, our forms of entertainment...we are all animals.  All you need to do is take away everything that puts us under the category of ‘civilized human beings’.  We have clothes for every occasion.  We have jobs.  We cook.  But when it all comes down to it, no matter how superior we are, we still need water to survive in this world…just like your pet dog, cat, just like every other being on this planet.  We are humans, we need oxygen, we need food, we need water, we need shelter, and once we take away the fancy potpourri we have in our bathrooms, maybe we’ll eventually realize that our shit does, in fact, stink.

 

 

Lesson #3:

 

        “So, do you have any kids?” my friend Ari asked.

        “Yeah,” he said, wiping some crumbs off his beard, “As a matter of fact I do.”

        “Oh really?  How old are they?” asked Hilary.

        “Nine and ten,” he said proudly.

We were quiet for a moment.

        “Wanna see a picture?”

        “Sure,” we said.

Then he left, leaving the three of us to exchange glances of excitement.  You see, this was a big moment for us.  Not because we were always craving to see pictures of Fluffy’s kids, but because we were actually speaking to him, actually learning more about him in general.  Because out of all our years at Fernwood, hardly any camper had even said hi to Fluffy, let alone carry out a conversation with him.  Some say this was because he drove a truck. Then again, it could have also been because, oh, I don’t know…he had false teeth, his real name was Leslie Millet, he’s been the head of our camp’s maintenance for the past thirty years, he randomly hits inanimate objects with shovels and threatens to do the same to our heads, he likes being called Fluffy, he skinny dips for charity.  I don’t know.  One of those.  All that matters is that we were the first campers in a really long time that had gathered up the courage to speak to him face to face.  And in the end, it was worth it.  He ended up being the drunken, slightly bloated father we never had.  Sometimes you just have to go out of your way to meet people you wouldn’t normally relate to.  The world’s busting at the seams with people of all kinds. Befriending them, or at least hearing their stories is practically the closest you can get to walking in their shoes.  That would be next to actually taking up maintenance for thirty years at an all girls’ camp in Maine.

 

Eventually, Fluffy came back with the photograph of his beloved children.  Handing it to us, he said, “The one on the left is Midnight…the smaller one is Striper.”

 

Choking back a laugh for fear that he might furiously whack our heads off with a chainsaw, we handed him back the picture of two rather scrawny looking cats and stuffed a few handfuls of M&M’s into our mouths. 

 

Lesson # 4:

 

Never let nine year olds get away with giving you an atomic wedgie.  Fight back with a tub of ice and believable death threats.

 

Lesson #5:

 

To be rather blatant about it, most of our problems are fairly miniscule.  Oh, no I don’t have plans for Friday night.  Crap, I’m grounded. Darn, there’s nothing on. And oh shucks, I had a quarrel with God and now he’s resurrecting Hitler from the dead so that he can start his incompetent master race, continue making half-assed paintings of ugly still-lifes, make Paris Hilton his co-leader and inevitably cause the apocalypse. But who cares, really?

 

Basically, no matter what your problem is, there is always a bigger one.  World hunger, world poverty, endangered species, terminal illnesses.  You name it, McDonald’s has probably started a charity for it.  However, since only one of us will end up being Miss America this year, the thought of trying to prevent every last one of these issues is very overwhelming.  You’re not a bad person if you are currently more pissed off because of summer reading than you are about the fact that thousands of children are starving in Ethiopia.  Most of us can get pretty wrapped up in our own lives.  And it may sound cheesy, but I found that merely looking up at the sky can make you forget about all your little problems.  The sky – the incomprehensibly endless mass of stars and meteors and clouds and maybe even other worlds. It’s larger than any problem on earth, larger than life in general. 

 

What I’m really just trying to say is…go stargazing.  And if you live in New Jersey, I’ve found that the airplane lights that travel through all the palpable pollution in the air kind of resemble comets if you squint hard enough and use your imagination. 

 

 

After writing this, I kind of feel like one of those nagging mothers that think they know everything and waste their lives answering all the questions on Jeopardy.  I’m really just a smart-ass fifteen year old that still has trouble following my own morals.  However, I do enjoy preaching to people.  It makes me feel like I have the some semblance of authority.  Although, even as I write this, my mom is screaming that it’s at least three hours past my bedtime and that I’m going to be a cranky bitch in the morning.  But, ah, whatever.  I’ll learn from my mistakes.

When I was eight and went to Sesame Rockwood Day Camp, I punched a girl out.  After it happened, the interrogation went on for weeks. Why, Daryl? Are you angry?  Didja just need to let it all out?  Were there problems going on back at home? Is it because she totally stole the part you wanted in Beauty and the Beast? Is it because she took that last strand of gimp in arts and crafts?  Did it have anything to do with the fact that the red team won?  That she stole your hairbrush? How much damage did you cause? How is she doing? How are you doing? How much trouble are you in? How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

 

It would have been cool if I had some radical answer to each one of these questions.  I really didn’t, though.  The real reason I punched little Rebecca out was entirely because she asked me to. 

 

“Why did I do it?” I had answered, pausing to create tension, “It’s quite simple, really.  Rebecca was a werewolf.  And, well…I’m a werewolf basher.”  Then I proceeded to telling everyone in graphic detail that by punching a werewolf out and then sticking three tridents through its abdomen, all the evils in the world go back to Hades.

 

Little Carrie with the fangs never spoke to me again.

 

Rebecca asked me to punch her in the stomach, actually.  Not to punch her out.  I was eight, though.  A stupid eight year old.  I mean, two years before that I was six.  Five years before that I was just potty trained.  Think about it.  I didn’t think about it, though.  “C’mon, Daryl,” she had coaxed, “Hit me in the tummy!  I just did thirty crunches!”  And I did.  Hard. Truculently.  Nearly knocked the wind out of her as she went flying over to the other side of the bunk and slammed against the wall.

 

After everyone gathered around her as she cried and gasped for air, I kind of sat in the corner, muttering and moping to myself.  Everyone was giving me the evil eye.  The kind of evil eye that only eight year olds are capable of mustering.  The snotty crooked pigtailed, “I drag my stuffed teddy on the filthy ground like it’s a freaking broomstick’ type of death stare.  Even the nurse, who came in a few minutes later, quite kindly told me to go to hell.  Well, actually, she said “Daryl, Daryl, I never expected this from someone like you…”  This was only because I was the innocuous asthmatic who didn’t participate in all-camp games of capture the flag due to the risk that I might break out into a fatal coughing seizure.  However, the ‘go to hell’ was nonetheless implied.

 

Instead, I went to Camp Fernwood.

 

I could go on for decades as to why Camp Fernwood does, in fact, resemble my perception of hell.  But you know what?  I do that every year. I’ve always complained about it to my parents, to my friends, to the readers of this weblog.  Because Camp Fernwood doesn’t have electricity.  And in Camp Fernwood, skinny dip is practically a required sport.  And in Camp Fernwood there are uniforms, there are nine year olds that grab onto your legs like leeches, there are cockroaches and so many rigid rules and the lake is a giant man-made toilet. But this is my seventh and therefore last summer at Camp Fernwood.  And by golly do I love swimming in pee.

 

Why the change in heart?  There wasn’t, actually.  I always had a soft spot for my camp.  In the time I spent there, so far, I hardly injured anyone I came in contact with.  Except for this one time when my friend Alex and I were canoeing and I steered the boat near a bunch of jagged rocks with eels surrounding them and we were lost for about two hours.  But they seemed like friendly eels. Not the electrocuting kind.

 

I love camp for all the reasons I’ve constantly complained about it.  I love Fish Friday because of the alliteration.  I actually think the only reason they even serve fish at camp is entirely due to the fact that it sounds good next to ‘Friday’.  I love inspection because it came straight from The Parent Trap.  And I also love singing while I sweep.  I love it when I smell like burnt wood after camp fire.  I love it when the only toilet in the entire shower house is clogged because someone new to the whole puberty thing flushed down a few jumbo-sized tampons.  I even love watching all those freakishly huge wolf spiders dissect each other as I try to fall asleep.  Well, not really.  But I do love sleep.  Which is something I should be getting right about now since I have to wake up at six in the morning.  To, you know, go to camp.

 

“Hehhahahee,” my mom said a few days ago when she thought I wasn’t in the room, “Little does Daryl know that I legally changed her name is Granola Prairiegirl and I’m actually sending her to Wyoming to become a farmer…”

 

But I’m just going to pretend I’m oblivious to her plot that I completely made up out of boredom and say my goodbyes.  Don’t feel bad if I don’t write you a letter.  I’ll be much too busy having the best summer of my life.  Before I have to take part in some dry summer college program come next June.  For now, though, it’s campfires, singing, trees and Big John, the obese head chef.

 

Have an awesome summer, everyone.  And remember, don’t do drugs, have sex without a condom, or watch the Muppet Babies without parental guidance.

 

See you in two gorgeous months.

The Disclaimer I Should Have Made Months Ago:

 

The thing about this web log is that it isn’t necessarily me.  I mean, it is.  But it’s edited.  It’s me with fewer errors; it’s me with more courage.  It’s me using repetition in order to further emphasis my point. It’s me if I could use spell-check, if I could re-read, reverse, re-construct my entire life into the way I want it to be. 

 

As bizarre as it may seem, it’s a lot easier to spill your soul to large masses of people than it is to only one person.  When you’re up there on stage, when you’re behind your computer screen, the light is blinding.  The light is focusing on you and not on the audience.  You can’t even see the audience you’re talking to.  And it calms you.  And you can talk about whatever you want because you can’t see.  You can go crazy with your ideas and your opinions and your experiences and your voice and you wouldn’t be scared because there are so many people, so many people with blank, shadowed faces. So many faceless people that they aren’t really people at all, but listeners. 

 

It’s different when you’re spilling your soul to one person, where the light is on both of you.  You actually have to look into that person’s eyes when you’re talking.  You actually have to listen.  You actually have a harder time admitting the truth.  It’s still you, alright. But you’re raw.  There is no room for editing, revising because you’re a pro, right?  You can talk to an audience for miles a minute.  Why not one measly person?  A person with a face that is staring back at you, waiting for a reply. 

 

Because you know you can’t backspace your words.  Real life’s more like a typewriter in that sense.  You could ramble on that typewriter for hours on end.  But one spelling mistake and it’s there forever.  Unless, of course, you get out a new sheet of paper.  But that completely kills my metaphor.  Not to mention, it’s a total waste of trees. 

 

My writing isn’t a separate, numb blob that I mold around like play dough whenever I have nothing better to do.  I can feel it.  It’s a part of my personality.  But you can’t expect it from me all the time.  My vocabulary, in all honesty, sucks.  Sometimes, it takes me ten minutes to write only one paragraph.  In person, I say ‘um’ consistently after I laugh at my own jokes.  Which is at least four times a day. Seven times if I had to read something I wrote in front of my lifeless Fiction Writing class.  I am so human that I feel invincible. I’m such a teenager that when I give advice on this web log, when I distinguish what is right from wrong, I might not even listen to myself.  My English teacher says I need to apply myself more and learn the rules before I start breaking them with sentence fragments and ineffective similes. And sometimes I try to convince myself that Van Gogh went through the same thing in kindergarten after he was scolded for painting the sky red instead of the stereotypical blue.  And then other times when I know better, I regret starting my sentences with ‘and’.  I regret thinking that I’m actually some artistic genius just trying to make a statement.  I’m not trying to make a statement.  This is just my way of fearlessly, although vaguely, revealing the truth. 

 

But now that I think about it, Van Gogh wasn’t really trying to make a statement, either.  The sky really can be red sometimes.