Once upon a time...

I write all day. I fall asleep writing things on an imaginary piece of lined paper in my brain. One day I’m going to regret writing a fucking book in the depths of my conscious. So I took this as a sign that maybe I should start the big bad blog up again.

I don’t really have a reason to write what I’m writing about. So I’m just going to write about it and see if it makes any sense. It’s kind of like a weird autobiography about high school. I don’t know why I felt compelled to write about high school, but my fingers just started typin’ and my mind was a flowin’, so I just went with it.

The Beginning: I had a really great attitude during the first two years of high school, which was this: I fucking hate this place and I fucking hate these people. Fuck my grades. I love myspace.

I knew everyone. Everyone knew me. Everyone sucked.

The Middle: So one day I woke up, and I was a junior, and I was wearing some weird shit.

I had an epiphany- I was wearing a striped windbreaker from the Goodwill and then I realized that I looked like a fucking idiot. Here are some thoughts that went through my mind on that day in ’08- “What the fuck am I wearing? No wonder everyone thinks I do drugs! I mean, I do, but this collection of fluorescent 80s windbreakers isn’t helping. Of course there’s a rumor that I love cocaine, look at this thing.” So I did what any person wearing an atrocious piece of clothing would do; I stuffed it in my fucking locker and forgot about it. It’s still there, I swear.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of my eclectic clothing choices. I lived in a pair of combat boots for four months until some asshole decided to annihilate them on the way to a pep rally. The boots were nearing the end of their reign anyways, but I couldn’t let them go, they had seen too many velvet dance floors. The only thing keeping them alive at that point was a thin layer of super glue. That douche, who will remain nameless, stepped on the heel as I was walking and it completely separated from the shoe. Nearly thirty other assholes saw and laughed, and I just stood there and glared at him and probably said, “You’re a dick. Fuck you.” I picked up my shoe parts and went to the front office and called my mother to bring me some new footwear. What I really wanted to do, and what I really should have done, was cut him. I should have stabbed him in the neck. But I didn’t, because I didn’t have a knife. Here are some thoughts that went through my mind on that day in ’09- “Why the fuck am I wearing combat boots when I don’t even carry a knife. Everyone that wears combat boots has a knife on them. I’m a poser.” So I did what any person wearing a badass pair of shoes that don’t fit their personality would do; I threw them away and bought a pair of converse. I was still keeping it somewhat punk rock, but less aggressive looking.

The End: I cried on the last day of senior year. I, the biggest loather of high school, fucking balled my eyes out. Why? Because I grew to love that ugly cement school which smelled of the 1970s and grilled cheese sandwiches. I ended high school on a bittersweet note. All those people that sucked, didn't really suck after all...or at least it wasn't their fault they were a little bit sucky. I think everyone stopped sucking after they discovered the wonders of delinquent underage drinking. Actually, fuck that statement, it made them totally suck even more. That's not the point though. I ended up missing all those suckers. Even that dick that broke my boot.

I had finally gotten my grades together, but it was too late. Going to a ‘real’ college was completely out of my reach. I realized this in the second semester of my senior year. I was finally motivated and ready to be studious, and some motherfucker in the counselor’s office said, “No way, Jose. You fucked up.” And I said, "My name is not Jose."

I didn’t go cry about it. I did what any future English major would do: I wrote an angry fucking poem about it and read it out loud in my British Literature class. It was one of those poetry slam assignments, so I got to gesticulate and yell and shit. And I was okay after that. Everything was gravy.

Here Lies Lexi and chapter one of her weirdly, pathetic pointless book thing. Stay tuned for chapter 2.