Junked up hair.
Louse creeped into my Highschool, my highschool full of the mangey, the angsty and the displaced and sparsely rich.
Word reaches quickly, duct taped reading LICE, we went outside in the sunlight to check our hair as we've been living together for three days and she has a tendency to share her hat. Our hair's the same color and indeed! we found them in nests and nets in unexpectedly placed follicles, nothing moving, just little eggs.
Was it Henry Miller who said, "It is better to die a louse on the streets of Paris, than it is to live lavishly in New York"?
I don't remember, what I do know is that everything lately seems to feel like a chartered event, something to take notice of, to read into. I'm wrong and it creates little ringlets of double helix thought, content limited to...being 15. I guess what I mean to say is that we all feel like trash at some point, can all be kicked to the curb and play eenie meenie miney moe with gutters, get burned with cigarettes and get forced to show this mark off in front of strangers you don't want to make eye contact with, take pictures of a girl holding a dead rabbity proudly...still stretching it's tendons, still clinging to it's physical state before it's skinned, I am, and have been called trash too many times, lived on a block of nothing but trailors and can remember being punched for trying to re-enact a tribal dance in front of girls who littered the laundry smelling streets with band-aid bubble gum rappers.
We sink/rise to what we believe we're worth. Often, I try to break free of what I've been subjected to, of what I've subjected myself to and for awhile it seemed natural to beat myself up with drugs that drained me, stagnation is easy but dynamics...dynamics are harder. So abuse is what I knew, inadequacy is a pavlovian mantra and I was trapped, still am sometimes.
Anyways, she was licking her jeans and sucking through a filter, while we waited for Ma/Pa we saw a truck drive by reading,
"Kill-A-Bug"
We laughed.
How ironic.
"How pragmatically real and symbolic" she hissed through her teeth,
I still think it was out of context but I understood what she meant, we were congruent, I need my typewriter back.
Pack me up in a pair of abestos based pajamas, polyurethane and esther, I'm goin' straight to hell.
And for all of you supposed angel headed hipsters, prose tea parties + badminton lead you down a prim rose path of not knowing, of embellishment and in those few hours nothing is trashy, this is what rich people fill themselves with to forget, to skim over, nothing too close or too real...I understood that for the first time.