I feel like I never graduated high school. I screwed around throughout my high school tenure and ended up 1/2 a credit short in Algebra II, which I had to knock off in summer school, and then there was to be a summer school graduation ceremony for we future leaders of America. No, thank you; I had an appointment in New Hampshire for falling flat on my face in love, and you don’t show up late for those. No matter how much you wish you had, somehow you will never show up late for those.
I learned later that my school would’ve fronted me the regular ceremony in good faith, but at the time I was too busy conjuring some macho bullshit bravado to have even asked about that as an option.
“I’m different,” I’d repeat to myself. “I don’t relate to these people, so why would I share in this event with them? Give myself one more opportunity to feel like I snuck into my own life?”
I don’t think this was the genesis moment, but it was definitely some bedrock foundation for my highly-evolved skill of getting very bitter, very quickly. Plus, the music was going to suck.
So, I walked around with the same diploma as all of my peers, just that mine had its dirty little secret, was somehow less genuine, was worthless, reflected nothing of what I actually knew. Mine was a participation ribbon that a corpse could earn if he could just make it to class on a regular basis. Hi, I’m barely your class corpse. I’ll just stick around in the periphery and creep you guys the fuck out on occasion.
That’s why last night’s dream was so fucking ridiculous. I don’t know if there was a 5-year reunion-ish thing, I skipped out on the 10-year, & I’ve heard there’s a 15-year thing coming up soon that I won’t be attending. And it has nothing to do with the people at this point; I like them now & relate to them just fine…I think. I guess it’s just a hard habit to break, to be a part of something from which you always felt apart.
Flakes’ convention? Sure, I’ll be there for a while and then disappear with no one the wiser. Meeting for people with untapped potential? I will make very powerful, very vague plans to go to this and then stay home because the planning of the event will somehow fill my desire to go. The Annual Gathering of Obnoxious Assholes? Turns out I’m the treasurer, and I’ll definitely be there. And now, because dreams are the only true divination this world has left since the witches were burned, I guess I’m going to my 20-year class reunion.
I have so much time to back out of that one, but then one day’s gonna come and it’ll just be tomorrow and last night’s awful rest has given me sight beyond sight that I’ll actually be there.
Apparently, they’re going to bulldoze the produce section of a grocery store to make room for the party, which is novel. The paper plates indicate that we’ll have another major financial recession/depression between now and then, coupled with the seemingly endless pots of stewing beans. But we all look great and have many of our teeth.
So many of us are going to have kids, and we’ll be bringing them. But there won’t be seats for the scamps, so they’ll sit on our plates. The bigger ones are going to be left to run amok in the candy aisle, and I will be punching a store manager’s lights out when he tries to stop them.
We’re going to be seated according to where our clothes fall upon the visible color spectrum, which is a bummer that I think we can fix before this event occurs. I’m really hoping we do, because the guy sitting in my spot won’t move. Pretty sure he didn’t even graduate with us, but that’s OK, because I didn’t even graduate with us. My stones stay in the garden and my house is glass as hell.
Oh, speaking of “hell,” someone (I say “someone” like my subconscious isn’t trying to worm the following concept into just about everything I write) hired demons as ushers and service staff, and they’re very brusque. And big. And undefeatable. I get kidney beans when I wanted black beans.
Apparently, I’m going to make a speech at some point; it’ll be early and a lot of people will think that I’ve just become shitfaced in lightning speed because it’ll be awkward and maybe a bit too personal. This isn’t true, because I just get happy, then quiet when I drink.
At least three new babies get made. Someone makes a citizen’s arrest and thinks that gouging another’s eyes out is a part of that process. I don’t know who, because none of us have faces, but who needs ’em? Just eyes: the creepiest fucking eyes you’ve ever seen. And most of our teeth.
We’ll all try to rationalize the “citizen’s arrest,” however much in vain, because that guy was always a smidge of dick. There will be a speed-reading contest, with a hundred bucks and a big fucking trophy on the line. The topic will be an ingredients list on the back of a shampoo bottle, and the loser is going to carry that failure like a lead albatross for the rest of his dimly-lit days.
And the best part is that this is going to last for weeks. We’ll have conveniently found a great shelter when the hurricane rolls through and we’ll ride out the catastrophic destruction, death and disease outside with bellies full of middle-of-the-store sundries. Someone very tall is going to put a hurting on the International Foods section all by herself, but that’s OK because we’ll have the spices and condiments, which will turn pretty much anything we have into its own Private International Foods section if we know what we’re doing.
Some of us won’t know what we’re doing, which won’t turn out well at all.
It’s right around this point where things start getting a little too Lord of The Flies-y for the comfort of the consensus. And that’s when I woke up, so I don’t know whether people are still trying or powerfully failing to force a trade of canned food for blowjobs when there’s such a surge of strength in the canned food currency market. Very stable currency, that Chef Boyardee.
Anyway, barring the attempted coup on basic modern societal structure and the presence of demons, this sounds like something that can get me really motivated. Hell, even the demons! There are problems to address, mistakes will be made, sure sure sure. But at least the kids will be there with us, and it’ll be cool to flush a toilet with sour milk because we all pounded down the water like manic diabetics on the first day. I’ve never done that, just like I’ve never gone to a class reunion or graduated from high school. This is going to be great.