Bleeeeeeeeeeeeehhh. I don't own things. Give me money. Did you know Japan
has sunflowers that play guitars? And you really can die from a tampon! I
read it on a tampon box that had some really weird diagrams.
That night, Tabitha sat in her room, sulking over the turnout of the day. No dates, no parties, and there weren't going to be any invitations after the chair incident and lunchroom assault on Lance. If beating him to death was a crime, then give her a baseball bat and lock her up.
She sighed and got up off her bed, ambling towards the stairs. What he said at lunch kept going through her head. Why was he noticing all this now? All the people, and how they only talked to their friends. She needed sugar.
Tabitha had momentarily forgotten that she lived with Lance, so when she saw him in the kitchen, eating cereal, she may have passed out from anger.
"Angry?" he said. Now they were repeating themselves.
"Pass the cereal." Tabitha's voice dripped with loathing. She got a bowl from the cupboard and sat down. He passed the cereal politely. She hated him for doing that.
She poured Frooty Nooses into her bowl and watched him. He didn't say anything. Something inside Tabitha hurt where there should be no hurt. Hurt was bad. Mullet. Think of the mullet!
And the hurt went away.
"Um...." Tabitha put down her spoon. The anger was gone. "What did you mean, in the cafeteria?"
He looked sad. "You've noticed the way the flocks group. The cliques. The groups where they stop becoming people."
Tabitha's heart went "pang". What the hell was that?
"Oh."
"Do you realize how serious it is?" he asked.
"People being friends? That's no big deal." She felt like she was lying. Thinking about the girls in the sweaters had kind of disgusted her.
"It's not." It eluded Tabitha how you could look at someone sideways and from the front, but it seemed to be the only way to describe his look. "It's in everyone. I'm surprised you can see the patterns."
Tabitha found no retort. He finished his cereal and left. She sat there a while, thinking. After a while, she dumped the rest of her Frooty Nooses into the sink.
Pukeity goodness, asks the author? Yeah, it sucked. I've always had people tell em I'm a "great writer", but I think in order to have the half- ass but emphasized- by-everyone-else-being-stupid writing ability I have today, I sacrificed something else. I cannot talk to people. I die. I'm almost hilariously unpopular with most of the student body at my school. Trying to make friends is like plunging a knife into my stomach and trying not to have the onset organ bleed. I've lost touch with a friend of mine, and now he seems as unreachable as those really cool upperclassmen with all their coolness. If you can read this, maybe you're like me. Can you really understand this, or are you faking? Where aren't you faking? Maybe if we met, I would hate you. I think this author's note is longer than the story itself. You're ticking me off. If you don't mind, my inferiority/superiority/abandonment/ being a teenager complex is growing so much it hurts. I must brood, so leave me.
That night, Tabitha sat in her room, sulking over the turnout of the day. No dates, no parties, and there weren't going to be any invitations after the chair incident and lunchroom assault on Lance. If beating him to death was a crime, then give her a baseball bat and lock her up.
She sighed and got up off her bed, ambling towards the stairs. What he said at lunch kept going through her head. Why was he noticing all this now? All the people, and how they only talked to their friends. She needed sugar.
Tabitha had momentarily forgotten that she lived with Lance, so when she saw him in the kitchen, eating cereal, she may have passed out from anger.
"Angry?" he said. Now they were repeating themselves.
"Pass the cereal." Tabitha's voice dripped with loathing. She got a bowl from the cupboard and sat down. He passed the cereal politely. She hated him for doing that.
She poured Frooty Nooses into her bowl and watched him. He didn't say anything. Something inside Tabitha hurt where there should be no hurt. Hurt was bad. Mullet. Think of the mullet!
And the hurt went away.
"Um...." Tabitha put down her spoon. The anger was gone. "What did you mean, in the cafeteria?"
He looked sad. "You've noticed the way the flocks group. The cliques. The groups where they stop becoming people."
Tabitha's heart went "pang". What the hell was that?
"Oh."
"Do you realize how serious it is?" he asked.
"People being friends? That's no big deal." She felt like she was lying. Thinking about the girls in the sweaters had kind of disgusted her.
"It's not." It eluded Tabitha how you could look at someone sideways and from the front, but it seemed to be the only way to describe his look. "It's in everyone. I'm surprised you can see the patterns."
Tabitha found no retort. He finished his cereal and left. She sat there a while, thinking. After a while, she dumped the rest of her Frooty Nooses into the sink.
Pukeity goodness, asks the author? Yeah, it sucked. I've always had people tell em I'm a "great writer", but I think in order to have the half- ass but emphasized- by-everyone-else-being-stupid writing ability I have today, I sacrificed something else. I cannot talk to people. I die. I'm almost hilariously unpopular with most of the student body at my school. Trying to make friends is like plunging a knife into my stomach and trying not to have the onset organ bleed. I've lost touch with a friend of mine, and now he seems as unreachable as those really cool upperclassmen with all their coolness. If you can read this, maybe you're like me. Can you really understand this, or are you faking? Where aren't you faking? Maybe if we met, I would hate you. I think this author's note is longer than the story itself. You're ticking me off. If you don't mind, my inferiority/superiority/abandonment/ being a teenager complex is growing so much it hurts. I must brood, so leave me.