Storytime ladies and gents. I was writing another story for my creative writing class and it just wasn't coming together the way I hoped, so I went back and touched up and finished this, which is something I started a long, while back. But now it has some character and depth to it. Don't judge it too harshly; I mean it is called "Misanthropy" for Christ's sake.
Misanthropy
To think all of this could have been avoided, if she only had read that label more closely, if she wouldn’t have been on antibiotics, if that selfish asshole had only pulled out, if she only would have douched, but no it had to happen. They still had Roe vs. Wade on their side; what went wrong? Is it really that big of a moral decision? Fucking up a child by raising it in your fucked up life? I mean it’s an easy outpatient procedure; they have clinics everywhere; you go in and the fetus comes out. Sure you may have to march past a pack of screaming protesters, who couldn’t differentiate their genitals from a blender, shouting something about murder, pretending children are people, but it’s a quick walk and they have to stand at least forty feet back anyway. At least today they do; I don’t know maybe it was different back then. Kids today have it too fucking easy. Well, then again maybe not. We live in the era of shotgun heroes and pipe bomb messiahs blasting the sin out of clinics unselfishly doing their duty blindly and justified for a loving and forgiving omnipotent asshole.
Perhaps the clinic wouldn’t have been the best course of action, you might know someone in that pack of fiends, but hell, they still always had a wire hanger; I know they did. They have a whole fucking closet full of them dated well into the early 80s possibly before, but not a single one worth sacrificing for the noble cause of destroying a consequence? Materialistic assholes. It only hurts for a moment; besides, I’m sure it’s more of a mere discomfort than a pain. Plus it’s a very private method: only you, the hanger, and the abortionist. Yes, there’s the high probability of infection and possible severe damage to the vaginal walls, but it’s a small price to pay. It’s like being a whore, but only in reverse. Maybe you could’ve gotten lucky and undergone some damage, you know nothing permanent, but just enough to teach you a lesson. I don’t know something like a yeast infection; it’s nothing major, but irritating as all hell. Because maybe if sex hurts, you’d stop having it and stop going to such drastic measures to deal with your irresponsible behavior.
I hate being the middle child.
But yet here I am donned in my overpriced tablecloth, my indistinctiveness reflected in its thin material, I sit as a drop amongst a sea of black. It’s said black is a thinning color, but there doesn’t seem to be much of a need for slimming when you’re anemic standing at an elevated 5’ 9” and weighing in at a massive 150 pounds. Plus there’s the entire concept of black being one of the worst colors for someone with naturally pale skin; it makes me look utterly Goth; something I rather despise, but I guess at this point the idea seems rather inane. Also it’s best not to forget the entire case of the garment being about three times larger than it needs to be; it seems to be making the point I’m not a successful American because I’m not obese and suffering from a heart condition. Well, I’m young; I still have time. Although, I think this thing was originally intended as a muumuu, a dress for men when pants have lost all efficiency and functionality, but somewhere along the way some genius who was most likely an asshole had the idea to give it to me for a the simple exchange of raping my wallet and just for the hell of it decided to throw in an even more useless hat.
I hate this fucking hat; it’s like a condom attached to a goddamn table though I suppose it was originally developed to protect overachieving brownnosers from contracting unwanted disease when they’re neck deep in their superior’s ass. Then there’s the tassel; the green and gold pieces of string looking like someone just threw some glitter on vomit with each strand of the damn thing waving side to side ever so politely molesting my face. I never did understand the importance of the tassel; I guess it has something to do with where it rests; something about which side it sits on and moving it left to right, on the right path, or some bullshit like that or maybe they’re just giving some students an idea of the props they’ll be using in their future careers of bars, bare skin, benders, and bacteria.
Well the future is what we were gathered to discuss, so here I am waiting patiently for it to happen among a mass of naïvely optimistic faces staring at a future filled, at least in their simple, bewildered minds, with hope. Hope, there’s so much meaning in such a short space: a combination of four little characters giving the possibility of purpose to a wasted life. The hope they hold is for fools: hoping to make the football team, hoping to make the cheerleading squad, hoping to win homecoming queen, hoping to win state, hoping the steroids don’t shrink their balls, hoping to pass a test, hoping to fuck on prom night, hoping to fail the right test, hoping Catholic parents don’t find out about the abortion, hoping the vomiting doesn’t tear the enamel off their teeth, hoping to actually know what enamel is, hoping the teacher stops propositioning them, or hoping the administration doesn’t find out about the various affairs with students.
Like I said, a waste; all that hope and where does it get them? A fucking crowded auditorium surrounded by an arena of light born from tiny box shapes clasped tightly, due highly to the fact they are worth more than their child’s education (that’s public school for you), by parents brimming with a sense of false pride? Some sort of belief their child had accomplished something monumental, never before achieved in the history of humanity, something beyond even the most mentally deficient are capable of completing with relative ease?
I sat twitching in my chair designed to stimulate proper posture engulfed in an auditorium whose main purpose was as a home to lectures for the ever-growing movement of a drug and sex free America. We would trudge in class by class like prisoners arriving by train being horded off to the gas chambers. We sat in our seats expecting a shower, a break from class, but were instead gassed with mundane and redundant lectures of the horrors of drug use, the lives of addicts, the reality of consequence, the fuck up of fucking the wrong person, or the amusing life of a paraplegic sentenced to 500 hours of community service for drunk driving, showing off varying degrees of humorous props such as a catheter and colostomy bag but perhaps, just maybe, I might have missed the point entirely. It doesn’t matter because unfortunately we didn’t have the luxury of being incinerated shortly after our innocuous deaths; we still continued to live our disposable lives with each day filled by the same routine as the last. We didn’t wear Star of David or purple triangle patches on our uniforms, but the connotation of us being lambs to the slaughter were still apparent. I never really saw suicide as a viable option; I mean why should I kill myself when I’m not the problem, but I always have in some measure envied those with the tenacity to pull it off. It’s like they wear the hole in their head or the noose around their neck or the slits on their wrists as some sort of red badge of courage quite literally in fact.
Although, today finally was a break from routine, one that doesn’t mention the word ‘abstinence’ or the phrase, “Just say no.” For one day in the ‘best time of our lives’ we would finally sit in this room with an actual purpose; it was something truly original at least in the sense it was the first time it happened to this class; we were graduating high school; a day many have looked to with mourning for it would be the death of their status as gods or goddesses and their ensuing rebirth as assholes no one would or could care about. As for me, it was a culmination of four years of malice and cynicism, which grabbed its foothold on the very first day of freshmen year.
We were all so young those four long years ago, but as I looked around I realized some had only aged physically; their minds permanently retarded by the long, painstaking nights of binge drinking. Their high school career being an endless party slamming one drink after another as a means of entertainment with any slogging behind being a sign of weakness and a means for social castration. From their point of view, it was better to succumb to alcohol poisoning than live the life of a social Eunuch, better to taste the contents of your stomach as it rushes through your throat on its journey to the floor than to actually make something useful of your time, better to wrap your car around a tree killing three of your friends while permanently paralyzing the fourth than to live a sober life. It was a great time filled with even greater memories, but the past is not what we’re here to discuss, only to reflect upon it as we gaze towards the future.
At least that’s the message all the speakers keep reiterating: a hopeful future. That’s funny; I look around, and that’s not what I see. I see a future too bleak to even want to be seen; a future brimming with the homeless, addicts, alcoholics, welfare cases, the unemployed, killers, rapists, abusers, victims, abortions, rehab, relapse, degenerates, perverts, and molesters among others. If only capital punishment was a religion, but alas we’re ever stuck with the filth; something about “rights” I guess.
“I look around and I see the next generation sitting before me; the next offering to the nation. I’ve seen you exert yourselves, I’ve seen you persevere, I’ve seen you prosper, and the future looks bright indeed,” says the woman currently occupying the podium. I’m not really sure who the hell that is, but I think it might be our superintendent; I know I’ve never seen her before. Upon actually looking at whatever the hell is standing on stage, the whole female thing is up for debate; she has the resemblance of a man. What with the stout figure, the chiseled jaw, the short perm haircut that doesn’t help her case for femininity, not to mention the beard she has going only amplified on the massive televisions placed strategically around the auditorium in case someone actually cared about what was happening onstage. On the plus side, however, she’d be the perfect poster child…person…um…thing for the ravaging drug use imposes.
Her face was like that of a massive vagina; her nose sitting there like an awful outbreak of herpes, the way her ears twisted like labial folds, her bangs encroaching on her forehead like pubic hairs under poor maintenance, and her manner of spitting while she talked as if we were all witness to her latest menstrual cycle. I felt pity for the podium because unfortunately for it there were no feminine napkins covering the gaping hole she called a mouth.
“Graduation day may be the single defining moment in a young person’s life,” it continues speaking, “it’s a tradition. The end of one age and beginning of a new.”
Tradition is bullshit. I forgot who said it, but “if we always do what has always been done, we will always be where we have always been.” It’s called progress, movement forward. Screw tradition. Let’s try something new. If the future is what we’re really here for, then let’s cast off the past.
Yeah, that will happen just like priests keeping their dicks out of children. People fear change; it makes them uncomfortable. People hate being uncomfortable. Wait, if that’s true then why the hell are we sitting here in this furnace? What is it like ninety degrees? Fucking—
Oh, everyone’s applauding; it must have finally closed its trap. Good. I don’t know how much more of that hopeful shit I could stand. Ah, it’s now time for the final speaker of this travesty of a memorable event: our ever-caring principal from the last four years. I always wanted to slice a long, slender, cut in the middle of his bald scalp, so he would more resemble the dick he already was. He has gigantic nostrils that just scream testicles; they’re furry enough; I can see the sparkling, white hairs jutting out on the big screens.
He approaches the podium in his dapper brown suit that looks like he stole it off a corpse. It was made for a stiff and one is wearing it. The fact that it’s brown beats me to the punch line about it looking like shit. He reaches the podium with a certain strut about him; he has authority over a large assortment of teenagers and the fucker thinks he has the supremacy of a god. The light glares off his bare forehead casting a grandiose aura about him, almighty asshole indeed.
He opens his mouth and said, “And now we commence with the dispensing of the diplomas.”
Well that was short and a bit of a surprise. Apparently he already spoke and I just wasn’t paying attention. Oh well, no loss. I’m sure if I really felt bad I could just blow my brains out like Brian from junior year. What a dumbass, killing himself over a girl and not even an attractive one at that. I can imagine it now: him alone in his ill lit room, tears pouring from his hazel eyes and streaming down his face as he sits there with a gun in his mouth. That scenario squeals with intelligence. What is it about sex that drives people so fucking nuts anyway? Some pattern their whole lives around it, like it’s the be all, end all; I guess in a way it is. Fucking procreation; just what we need: more people. Sex is just sticking things in other things and then various fluids are involved. Wow a lot going on there. It’s biology. Get over it.
The first row lines up waiting for their entrance into adulthood all donned in their monotone garb; it’s rather difficult to tell them apart, but I look down the line and point each one out: bitch, asshole, cunt, eating disorder bulimia, dick, fuck-wit, shitface, not to be confused with fuck-face, eating disorder anorexia, shit-tackle, and bringing up the rear none other than fuck-ton himself. The procession continues on like this until my row reaches the stage an absurd amount of time later.
I’m at the front of a line I didn’t want to be a part of in the first place, but my name is announced and I begin the walk of the damned. I walk towards center stage where a firm handshake and my diploma are waiting. I take a glance to my right and see the vast, vile beast made up of thousands of faces peering at me. I hit center stage and see the microphone sitting vacant. I can’t resist. I grab the microphone with diploma in hand ignoring the firm handshake I spent four years to earn and scream, “Humanity’s a cancer! You’re all a fucking tumor! This means nothi—“ before I am rudely interrupted by being dragged away from the podium by a pair of arms that look a lot like shit with hands. Security is signaled and now I have officially caused a scene.
Security has now grasped me by my arms; I don’t even try to fight it. I said my piece. They escort my down the long rows through the audience. I am covered with angry glares from parents who felt I was a stain on this evening; one even shouts that at me as I am ushered by. We reach the parking lot where I say adieu to my new found friends as they wander back to the auditorium.
I take off my hat, my head now susceptible to all the disease out there, and remove the gown throwing both of them to the ground. I pull out my pack of cigarettes as well as my lighter. Sticking one of my nicotine tubes in my mouth I commence setting my diploma on fire. I hover the flame at the bottom of the sheet, watching it begin to light up. I bring it closer to my face and light my cigarette with it inhaling trying to get the end to light. I note success as I inhale a large gush of smoke, and I drop the burning diploma to the ground watching flaming pieces of it breakaway and fade off into the night. I take another drag of the cigarette as I watch my hard-earned diploma turn further into ash. As I exhale I say, “here’s to cancer.”
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