By: Kristy Fusich
Smells Like Teen Spirit was a terrible song about deodorant, but we listened to it anyway and rocked out in our dirty flannels with the cigarette burn holes in them.
You got high on meth in my bathroom and proceeded to paint your fingernails over and over and over again.
Someone knocked on my bedroom window; someone’s always knocking on my bedroom window. They want a smoke because they’re out and they know that I have one.
I don’t like to share much. I’ll say that I do but I don’t. Go get your own and leave me alone I was fine being by myself.
I don’t need all these so-called friends bothering me to come out front and sit on the porch and smoke cigarettes and listen to music and talk shit about that girl who fucked that guy in the car at the drive-in.
What a slut? You did the same thing, but it wasn’t at the drive-in it was at a desert party in the back of a truck with a camper shell on it so no one could see you do it.
I never did it and it cost me a terrible relationship that I didn’t even like, but I was upset anyway for no good reason.
So I wouldn’t take my clothes off in front of you and let you violate me and take my virginity. I’m a prude? No, I just didn’t like you. Did you ever think of that?
I hated myself and the way that I looked, so boring with all the brown. My mother’s eyes are a heavenly green. Why did I get brown?
The boys don’t like girls with brown eyes, for they tell me so.
You have brown eyes and the boys love you. Oh, but you’re a fast little pussycat who puts out and that’s all awful horny little teenage boys care about anyway.
They don’t want to read your poetry, or talk about that book, or look at your sketches, or watch James Dean movies. There’re only three just watch one with me!
Maybe seventeen will be better than sixteen. No hope for that. At least I’ve pulled myself out of the Darleen Conner darkness with the help of these fancy little pills and I can hang out with my friends at parties and sip on a Zima or a little Boones Strawberry Hill and smoke my cigarettes with a condescending smirk on my face while you all talk about what you’re going to do in college as if you’re even going to get there.
I’m not going to get there because it’s a big scary monster that lives in my closet and will eat me if I try and get there.
I’ll be a Hollywood storyteller and make movies and be happy and love my life and screw actors and try some blow. Ok, maybe not the blow. I never liked drugs.
What’s that? I can’t be a storyteller in Hollywood either? Well what the fuck can I do? I can be a good little wife and mother like the rest of you?
Tell me I can learn a trade and maybe work part time just to get out of the house and make some friends and make ends meet.
Kids would only be poisoned with the depressed and anxiety ridden venom that I would infect them with. Not on purpose mind you. Never on purpose.
I would pray to a God I don’t even believe in that they are happy and smart. Not manically depressed for thirteen years and unknowingly dyslexic when it came to math and just feel stupid and useless and horribly ugly and disfigured and have no way to be rid of the insanity not even with drugs and alcohol because you don’t like the way they cloud your head and throw you off.
I should drink more like all my friends do and get hospitalized for alcohol poisoning and overdose on meth and miss class because I was too stoned.
Let’s go to the park and get high. Go to the park and get high and get shot at in a drive by. Good thing we didn’t go otherwise we could’ve been the ones with a bullet in our heads.
I guess it pays being the only two teenagers who don’t smoke weed. What’s the big deal with it all anyway? With drugs, with alcohol, with sex?
I thought we were supposed to be kids and worry about what to major in at college and who we were going to prom with and where to go on Saturday night.
I have a car and we can go anywhere. We can cruise Metro Center. We can go skateboard downtown.
We can chill on my lawn and not have to worry about stealing a pregnancy test so that no one knows you’re taking one. Chill and not worry about reading the next two chapters of Lord of the Flies for class. Chill and not worry about that guy you met at The Break calling you.
That guy was too old for you anyway. Those older guys from the Air Force base that cruise the pool hall and hit on the high school girls.
Half of them are married and have kids. Do they know that we are in high school? Do they care? Most likely not because they want what all those same stupid high school boys want. Sex, sex, sex, sex
Enough already. I just want to be a girl and like a boy with a pretty face and a sweet smile and have him like me back without picturing me naked and sucking his dick.
I’ve had it.
I fade out.
Fuck this teenage shit. I’ll stay and adult and reminisce.