Dear diary,
My counselor told me to keep you because "puberty is hard on everyone and sometimes it feels like you have no one to talk to" so I suppose I should write out my thoughts here, huh?
Today I thought about growing up.
You notice you're growing up, our English teacher would say, when you don't look forward to getting up in the morning, when days are concise and short, when nothing is seen through tinted glasses and everything runs past you in a burst of light.
Okay so I may have added a few things, but that was the gist of it. So I sat in the back row for a good half an hour pondering why I was growing up. It would be okay, Kevin would assure, it was natural. But I didn't wanna be natural, I didn't spend days and weeks watching sci-fi movies to be natural. Fuck natural.
But April wasn't green anymore and days weren't long and we didn't go out to play anymore because we had better things to do. And the most important quality a human being could have was a huge dick.
I never really measured mine, I thought it was stupid. Or maybe I was "running away from my insecurities" or some other bullshit Craig would say during lunch through mouthfuls of gross cafeteria pizza.
"Clyde," the voice said. No, fuck, not the voice, the person. The person said, "the class is over, we're leaving," it was Craig, apathetic and probably hungry. Our schedule was fucked up like that, we got home early enough not to be hungry during lunch break, but we'd die by the end of 6th period.
On Fridays, including today, since it was in fact Friday, 6th period was English class, where no subject is taught, per se, but much learning occurs. The tales are endless and could not be told in a lifetime.
And I shuffled out of the classroom, past girls deciding where they're gonna go at 11PM to disappoint their parents, boys talking about god knows what and a few kids discussing the molecular theory of gases - I was jealous. I knew nothing about gases except that they spread as evenly as possible in a confined space.
Kevin suddenly appeared out of nowhere and I might have screeched a tad but it was alright.
"Come to my house," he said sternly, not even waiting for an answer, "I need to show you something."
When we were 13, Kevin took me to his house and showed me his KirkxSpock fanfiction and I thought it was the coolest, most contemporary shit I'd read in my life.
We turned 14 and he wrote Byronic heroes contemplating the meaning of life. When we started high school, he started writing poetry. In sophomore year, he wrote what he could, from journals to poems to essays and short, tear stained stories with sad, black haired protagonists plagued by thoughts of suicide and homicide.
Kevin was so far superior to how he wrote himself.
His house looked like a castle for those not bound by walls, his room was messy but it made sense, I knew where everything was because I practically lived in it but it all made so much sense.
He tossed poetry at me about dead trees and blue eyes and I shifted my gaze up along his leg up to his crotch and up his torso and I spent a good 20 seconds staring at the way his mouth moved as he recited slowly, softly so his parents wouldn't hear.
There was no need to be so quiet, we were loud sometimes and no one heard. I assumed it was to assure himself. Maybe he was shy. He sat next to me on his bed (with panda covers) and I absentmindedly put my hand over his. I guess that must have thrown him off because he stopped reading. Had I ruined the entire poem?
I stayed the night. He stole wine from his parents and we got drunk and he leaned up extra close and whispered in my ear: "I love you," and I didn't know what to say and I really had to cough so I did and he probably took offense so I stumbled over apologies and he hugged me.
Our English teacher said growing up was when street lights dimmed and the night sky seemed like a savior. And April wasn't green and February was long and we didn't know what we were fighting for. And I never wanted to be lost in the oblivion of adulthood.