Friday, March 2, 2012

The Plastics... only dumber.

As part of my blog, I will be putting in in-class pieces from my creative writing class, starting with this one. This is about Middle School / Junior High / Hell / Breeding Grounds for Spawn of Satan ... whatever you'd like to name it and about the power that particular bullies can have. Well, like any middle schooler, I didn't particularly do anything worth remembering in middle school, so here goes nothing, pieced together from scattered memories, and bits of glass.

3 comments:

  1. Dreams came and went,
    hopes stirred into surrealists paints,
    separating into blurred art,
    and created by uncertainty.

    He had the shiniest hair,
    gracefully whisking into a sexy face.
    I had crooked teeth,
    a totally flat chest,
    and a perfect grade point average.

    She had a flat stomach,
    hair smoother than egyptian cotton,
    and actual boobs,
    supported by her extraordinary push-ups.

    She got to have him,
    got to run around in a bikini,
    while I sat with tummy chub
    protruding
    from an ill-fitting Barney-purple one piece.
    I had comic books and archaeological dig toys.
    She had him. Always had him.
    It never even mattered who "he" was.

    Two years of torture,
    two years of hell.
    Two years of being too smart,
    too chubby,
    and ultimately unattractive.

    We were friends. Best friends.
    Always would be.
    So she could like the people I did,
    find the answers like I did,
    and watch me do projects,
    just like I always did.
    And still do.

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