Pencils In September

I smell like pencils in September. After they’ve been brought to that…to the machine hanging on the closet wall where our coats, our boots, our bags, and nonsense lived. You stared me in the eyes, since the teacher pretended that nothing else existed but the useless history that some half-wit politician from Alaska named Jedediah decided to encrypt into our computer-less prison of “who the f^ck cares since careers won’t exist anyways.” No, you don’t see Russia from your patio. I’m a Political Scientist now, dabbling as a Psychologist, better than any of you idiots who pretended to teach us by the crayon-written resume of your self unmarked by proof. If only you stopped using money to weigh yourselves by the us…we’re way smarter…but way poorer. Figure that out with your Hooked on Phonix commercials. Anyway(s) the cheap orange brown boxy wood where my trapper keeper was bound to a hand-raised stood before your defiant gallivant. I watched you walk up to the machine. Distracted as usual because nothing made sense…unless I allowed it to. You didn’t deign to raise a hand to ask for permission to sharpen the blade that your mom would have sat on. Ha, is that OK? Did I do it right? You didn’t deign to ask what deign meant, because teacher totally wouldn’t have deigned to know, especially without knowing what it actually meant. Your WWJD bracelet can’t help you there, but maybe the closeted lesbian principal could have. Do all nuns know they’re hiding yet? We just deigned to be there. She just wanted us to memorize when the British Revolution took place according to baby Santa Jesus or whoever pretended to be there, and who said what to who, on when or else we kill ourselves in our failure to deign to feign the glory of nonsense vomited from her mouth. Memorizing fictions got old too long. I was just fantasizing of ripping the skin off of my knuckles with what should now be an illegal scooter. Listening to her was worse though. Your eyes were more important anyways. Glittering as the graphite pretending to be lead from the crispy yellow wood shaved down into a cylindrical pyramid of gnawing exasperation. I want us to be number 2. I wrote of you in my journal and named you Chrissy, instead of Robert, because I knew my mom was busy doing nothing. Only Stretch Armstrong knew. The Pink Power Ranger should always be hotter than the Green, unless you have cooties. Later on you gallivanted in your Phat Pharms. Your ankles protruded proudly atop the rounded curve of the white crescent of such a now-ghetto shoe. We invented the ankle sock in such shoes on the mulchy playgrounds that slivered us. Payless was right. The parenthesis adorned about the letter “P” was as attractive as the “P” in your pants I was pretending to have never heard of, even though mine wouldn’t shut up. Please don’t check us for scoliosis today. Twelve-year olds are gross, but aware. Trapped between, in an aether of knowing and being denied the right to do so in a lame shackle of whatever the hell the school was blathering on about. My shoes weren’t as cool and never would be, but the smell of me now is cooler than the shaven shredded oaken yoke tendered from the helix of a pencil sharpener. For some reason, this is where I am now after my husband yelled at me for being asleep. I couldn’t before and now I can so I should celebrate with a sense of wanting to die: Oh to be from the 90s. I can’t tell if I’m a fetus or on the verge of death. “You’ll know freedom in your forties.” I smell it now in me, anyways. I couldn’t sleep and forgot to wear deodorant and for some reason smell like a pencil freshly sharpened by a multi-bulleted cylindrical, rotary mechanism nailed to a wall that no one shall ever know again. In case you were wondering about the last stanza. Laying here, sleeplessly at age 30, thanks to too many reasons untaught by that which mouths croaking fatly before the desks we sat at. Unable to speak to kids with a voice other than that of anachronistic holocausts. Blaming us for things we haven’t done yet, but considered too, thanks to the portent of blame, obviously. Sister Mary once dumped Charles Tibbet’s desk upside down because his finger wasn’t a literal inch from the tip of his pencil. It was one of those top-flip desks that had an indented cylindrical folded lip to hold your writing utensils that she should have just sat on. If only words were less anachronistic. I wish I could say c^nt here, because many my age were raised by them. Fat b;tches who knew nothing but vocal tyranny for the should and ought, rather than for the would or thought. Pressing on about a world they knew nothing of, especially when they bent before the cloaked pedophiles we had to tell our sins to. The old world is disgusting and the only thing I’m proud of in being my age is telling that one to go f itself. Anyway(s), My armpits smell like a pencil-sharpener in 2001. Bushy and Gorey as can be, without caring or realizing it in themselves, but still putrid either way. Both of them are idiots for thinking they had a chance, but what do I know. I was in gym class during 9/11, and Bush was doing just the same. How convenient it was to film something in the time of not yet filming things as we do now. “Oh, I’m conveniently reading books to children on video,” said not many from that time. I probably would have done the same though...doing cocaine and reading books to kids. What is wrong with that, exactly? Putin is the actual blowy-upy-the-peepy-to-invady, but I’ve no time for recess. Just books. Read them, maybe you can have an opinion not vomited from your internets. I just study and write papers that only I taught myself how to. I won awards for them, which you, the people from afore, never could have done considering your lack of internet and therefore ridiculous lack of reference, but to succeed as did a person my age in the 80s or the 90s today is to be a trashcan shaped like the Hamburgelor or a fat purple monstrosity. We are equally qualified. To make it clear to the generations before who know not the current world of more than DOUBLE the global population of their own (not that you can cognize this or the word cognize without help) and apocalyptic capitalism born from the laws of the Trumpelstilskin 1980s: We are better than you in every respect and worse off in every respect. I should have just killed myself for being gay, since that was your advice anyways.