“Boykisser!”
No shit, Sherlock.
I rolled my eyes, not that Nathan could see me through his massive ego. I kept walking. That was part of my master plan titled Keep Out Of It: head down, keep walking, say nothing. It was easier this way. The light turned green, and the monstrosity one could call Nathan’s truck sped away. Man, I hated that guy.
You know what else I hated? Propriety. Like, don’t expect me to stop swearing around you just because of your prissy little beliefs and the societally-induced idea that something was inherently wrong with the word fuck. Like any self-respecting teenager, I plan on forgoing all adult-imposed rules, but what really bugs me is that they’re there in the first place. Please, God, explain to the poor miserable boy praying to you right now why there has ever been something wrong with a word. Singular word. It’s not even like I swore to hurt people’s feelings, I just did. It’s part of my vernacular.
I am not a fan of many things, I must say. Cynicality is kind of my personality, and don’t you dare pull the “poet and doesn’t know it” line, or I will gut you like a fish so help me God. I’m not exactly a religious guy, but I won’t try to tell you that God isn’t real and that a bunch of fucking random events led to this moment. It’s improbable. I also won’t sit on your front porch preaching to you about why motorcyclists are sinners who will repent in hell. I like to consider myself in the middle of the religious spectrum.
So anyway, I’m walking down the sidewalk, as one might happen to do on a Tuesday afternoon, thinking mildly existential thoughts about God and swear words, when…. Yeah, there was no “when (insert some life-altering change to your surroundings)”. I’m just spicing shit up, man. And I do hope you, dear reader, don’t think I use the word “man” as an unnecessary add-on to the endings of my particularly unfunny sentences, because, in fact, that was the exact thought I had. No filters. “I’m just spicing shit up, man.” Ridiculous, isn’t it?
Enough about me and my beliefs. I happen to think self-absorbency is a disease, and I can feel it starting to infect me. The sidewalk is cracked and full of weeds that have no reason to be there other than they love to hate the lawn neat-freaks. The houses in this neighborhood must have once been really nice, but now all I can see is the shithole it is. No, there aren’t any gangs, or heroin needles, or even mildly threatening men in ski masks, but it is a shithole nonetheless. What can I say? I speak the truth.
When I got to 884 Newland Drive, my mother was waiting for me. Which is decidedly never a good sign. Mothers tend to get nosy, you see, and that is the Last Thing I Want. “Mawce, why the hell did your principal call me?”
And there we have it folks, the end of Mawce Wilder as we know him. I took a deep breath, not that I was anxious, just that I should probably appear to be calm in this circumstance. One step into the kitchen. Just one. “Mom, the thing is-”
My dearest, most darling mother did not even grant me the privilege of starting an explanation, much less completing one, in the measly time frame of five to ten seconds that she typically granted me to explain myself before she started screaming. Today was a bad day, then. Typical.
“You have NO right to do that to me! None! I have always trusted you, Mawce,”
Ooh that’s funny.
“And now you have the utter indecency to-”
I have the utter indecency? She’s not even trying.
“Treat me like this! What is wrong with you?!”
Oh, I wish I knew.
This back-and-forth of my mothers monologue and my thoughts continued for a considerable period of time before I was banished to my room. Oh, what a tragedy. To be completely honest, I don’t even know why my principal called her. We’ve never been on friendly terms, exactly, but I know he doesn’t hate me enough to pull some bullshit like this. I hate adults who think they can get what they want because they ‘have experience’. Especially because half the time, they’re right; not about having experience though, whatever that means. Mr. Wasther was like that.
God, get me out of this motherfucking town.
My room is small, only large enough for my thoughts and I. Metaphorically. The faded green walls still feel like home, though, and I can always count on being able to relax here. Usually being home is hell, but when I’m in my room with the door closed and music loud enough to split my brain open, I feel like no one actually cares if I’m gay, or the highest GPA in the school, or if I did eat my twin in the womb. I can just be Mawce Wilder, professional guy.
And to answer the inevitable questions the reader has: yes, I’m gay, yes I have the highest GPA in my school for the last 20 years (I swear I’m not that smart, people genuinely try to use ‘run’ as an adjective around here), and no I did not eat my twin in the womb. We got separated, actually. Our mom was a lot harsher with Ida than she’s ever been with me, so when dad left, she went with. I haven’t seen her in ten years.
People just start rumors about me because it’s easy. Fun, even. Obviously more fun than trying to even think about looking at a dictionary, much less actually reading one. It’s just the way life goes for me. I’ve stopped caring, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want it to stop. Hence Keep Out Of It.
I know I probably sound like a fucked-up pretentious queer kid who hates himself, and yes, that is partially true, but the real me is just sad. I miss my sister. I miss my dad. I miss all of the best friends I never got to have. Really depressing, right? So I just live under my “Fuck off, dickwad” mask and hope it gets better.
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