I've always hung out with the bad seeds. The fast girls, girls that spread like mayonaise. I liked the way they smelled; like nicotine behind the gymnasium...while the rest of the suckers had to run circles and time em. I like the way the boys could drive with their knees, hands free to brush the overgrown hair outta their eyez, on their way to skool. Glazy from the morning haze.

I was never really one of them.
At first I thought I hung around cuz I liked the thrill.

Mmmmmhhmmm.
Cheap thrills. Nahthough thaz nawt rite. cause the real thrill for me i found in the pages of books, notes that know yellow in plastic boxes in my parent's house.

he paused. licked his lips. and scratched his ankles, below the socks.

Maybe thats why I started teaching.

Then I thought it had to with those skoolmates, not being afraid to fail at the things that i was too scared to do anything but succeed at.
Lame. Maybe I was attracted to the disgruntled passion only found in the pimpled angst of rebellion
Some sorta idealized depression that lead only to drug problems, suicide or greatness.

the hair on his legs was dark and thick. It tangled as it crept up aroung his thighs, tangling, entwined, barely hidden from his jean light cut-offs. He took a drag from his cigerate. a bit of ash dropped into the thickect of dark hair, nestling, entangling, protecting. damp.

Recently I realized
cigerate out in ash tray
that i just felt their was something comforting about someone else's denial, orlack there of. I coudln't really tell
legs crossing
I guess we are all in the same boat