When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Yeah, sure. I'll get right on that.
I don't even like lemonade. I hate lemonade, in fact. It's too sweet. It's too yellow. It looks like piss, for God's sake.
Rex would always tell me to make the best of it, focus on a stream of thoughts and laugh at the school's dirty little secrets. It's not that bad, he would say, lots of people would love ot read people's minds. People who gave a shit about them, about their idiotic little problems and idiotic little worries. I don't care. I cannot find words to express the indifference I feel towards these useless waste of sperm and eggs. They all believe they are what everyone cares about, what everyone loses sleep over, that their problems will inevitably cause the end of the world. Why feed these believes with an interest in their thoughts?
I find myself subconciously turning up the music, until even my thoughts are sunk into the angry class of metal guitars and hopeless, tired screams, creating some kind of chaotic harmony that matched everything about this place, about the world. Chaotic harmony. We brutilize, we destroy, we pillage, but for some reason, we manage to live in what we believe to be piece. We are civilized.
And, apparently, we drink lemonade.
Rex looks at me, and so does Dess, and apparently I've said something. I don't know what it was. I just stare in between the gap of their two heads until they look away, and I'm nearly alone. Except for the voices. And the screaming.
I don't like lemonade. It's too sweet.
