The stick-up

So, I have explained that school was no more enjoyable a place for me than was my home. Looking back now, it's hard to discern what did more damage to my soul, the words of hate or the fists of hate. Both ripped my heart from my chest and broke my spirit like a wild mare being ridden for the first time.
Eighth grade was no different from any other year. However, one day seemed diffferent. All the kids were staring at me and laughing, when normally they would just say things and laugh. All day they were looking at me and even pointing at my desk. I kept looking at my little Catholic school uniform, oh yes, did I forget to mention it was a catholic school? Evil little bastards, but I digress. There was nothing on my uniform, nothing on my face, nothing on my shoes. What? What the fuck are you looking at? Jesus, just say something about me already and get it over with! It was not until ten minutes before school let out that I realized what was going on. I dropped my pencil on the floor, I bent over to pick it up and there it was. Underneath my desk, stuck right in the middle of it, was a stick-up. A fucking air freshner. I don't think Crayola makes the color of red my face turned at that moment. My heart sunk into my stomach and the tears began to well up. I slowly slid my hand under my desk and ripped off the damn thing. They have sticky tape on the back, so it didn't come off quietly might I add. All heads turned and they all got in one last laugh. This was the beginning of a realization that death was an option, kids are not happy little people, where was God for me, and who the fuck did I piss off in a former life to live in this filth?

Fake Family

To be honest with you, two things saved my life in childhood. As I told you already, music was one of the components. The other, sports. I excelled in softball and basketball and I would have given my right eye to play. Softball was my sport of choice and I am not too proud to say I was damn good. It was sometime in the mid eighties, and I had the highest batting average in the entire city, including all men's, boy's and women's leagues. I still have that trophy, name plaque all worn and tarnished, just as my memories of childhood. When I was on the court or the field, I mattered. I was part of something larger than myself and my crumbling existence. Every bead of sweat meant that I was contributing to my "team," my fake family. I call them fake because the only time these people were nice to me or wanted anything to do with me, was when we were in the heat of competition. I got all the high fives, back slaps, way to go's you could ever imagine during my games. Yet, when the final score displayed, I was nothing again. This is an area of human behavior I have never been able to wrap my mind around. How do you treat people like this? How do you pretend, if only for a moment? Truly, nobody cared. These kids' parent's loved me, yet they had no idea what little fuckers their kids were. By fuckers, I mean devious, satan worshipping little maggots. Remind me to tell you about the "the stick-up."