My Spanish teacher was insane

A birder, yes he was

Odd man with an odd hobby

This is what he does-

He goes on fancy trips

Places high and low

Searching for many birds

From cardinal to crow

He puts in lots of effort

And he wakes up at dawn

To watch them leave their nests

And to throw birdseed on his lawn

Every week he goes to hike

Different trails to search

He looks up to every tree

From sycamore to birch

He's very proud of his 'talent'

And he tells many tales

Of how he has seen many species

From the quetzals to the quails

He really has found many rare ones

I have to give him that

It's since he has spent so much time

In their habitat

He also takes many pictures

Of all the birds he sees

He showed us his photos in our class

Oh, just stop it please...

To top it of he adores their calls

Which he loves to record

He has a website page for his audio

And it makes me oh so bored

With birdwatching he's obsessed

He is certainly quite... interesting

And he really thinks that he is

The true birdwatching king

I make bad decisions sometimes. So this story has a moral. That moral is to ALWAYS read the FULL book before recommending it to someone. My debate teacher gave me a book request two days before the last day of school. The book was pretty good (The Alchemist), but I got bored once I was done with the book. So, I found another book by the same author (Veronika Decides To Die) and read it online at two in the morning, as one does. But, since it was two in the morning, I fell asleep before I could finish the book. But what I read was really good, there was only one questionable line in the beginning that I thought would connect to something about the character's past, or mental illness. But no. And I did not know that at the time.

The next day, I recommended the book to earlier referenced teacher. I recommended the unfinished book. Two days later, I picked up the book again to finish it. I did NOT know it would be that *ahem* unholy. I mean, it actually did kind of make sense in context, but keep in mind that I recommended this to a teacher. Even worse, there's a chance I'll get the same teacher next year for English, since he teaches an elective and a core class... help me...

Luckily, the teacher hates me and won't pay any mind to my recommendation, though I do know he'll take them from some students.

{As a side note, I give the book a 6.5/10, the beginning was quite beautiful, then it took a nosedive.}

Short skirt bubblegum blonde. High school sweetheart type, but none of the starry-eyed boys following her could save her that night. She should have been more careful. Just because the road is clear doesn't mean you won't get hurt. She shouldn't have had alcohol on her breath. The average white bread high school mourned her the next day. But she hadn't died. The idol was only in the hospital. Her boyfriend missed her the most. He remembered how she felt outside. Smooth skin, whole body firm, yet soft. Silky hair. Warm lips. Curves. The doctor saw it differently.

She was splayed out on the operating table. She was no longer warm, no longer smooth. Her curves were cut. Her skin was torn apart. And she was stained red. Her body wasn't perfect, her body was no more. The doctor felt her through latex gloves. Her innards felt limp, wet, loosing life. She felt like she was dying.

When she came back to school, the teenage princess was looked at. Until she realized that she was being looked through. Now a nobody with no body. Beauty is only skin deep. All you can feel under that skin is flesh and blood.

Roaming around, downtown sunset. Disoriented and wanting dinner. Didn't know what street we were on, didn't really care. I was with the two guys, rough and tumble but softer inside. I took long steps to match their pace. "Why are you walking so fast?" "Only to keep up" I said. "It's not too bad" I said. I never told them how tired I was.

We walked some more. It got cooler. We got hungrier. And the further we went, the more sketch the neighborhood got. "Stay between us" they said. "Hell no" I replied. And they moved so I was in the middle anyway. I am fragile. I look like a child. I am a girl. I am decent prey.

We got dinner. They stayed by my side. Life shouldn't be this way.

A girl wants to walk home at dusk by herself. The world is not ideal.

The cops don't always get the robbers. Life doesn't work that way. They did catch the crooks this time though. Red Camaro, 4:47 am, headed north. Trunk full of two things- money and drugs. It wasn't a high speed chase or anything. Just two tipsy hotheads on a free road. After 24 miles, it wasn't free. A melody came along, brash, crashing. Snuck through the Camaro's rolled down windows. Sirens. A red-blue twostep light show flared up on the cops' cars. But these criminals were having none of it. On they went. Miles, miles, the two didn't know how far they would have to go. The two didn't know how far they had come. Very far, they had gone very far. Too much. The stretch of road seemed much shorter than it was. On top of the world with cash and drugs, pistol in the glove compartment, and a bottle of confidence in hand. They didn't see the empty tank. They got caught. Reckless.

I always told her that cigarettes would get the best of her.

We'd sit on the bench after school, talking about nothing, thinking about everything. She'd have her cigarette, I'd have a 7-Up. We'd strut around at dusk, better than everyone, queens of the streets in a way. She was a girl who could hold the weight of the world on her back, and still carry the groceries home. And she'd take a light before each walk. Mornings too, a frozen waffle and a hot cigarette.

She lit it tonight. She never used matches, always a red hot BIC lighter. She wouldn't have any other colour. Superstition of sorts I guess. Her superstition was right in a way, I guess. She died tonight. The lighter was blue. I don't know what I expected. I knew smoking would put her out someday. Not like this.

Are there cigarettes in heaven?

She called me Jekyll; she called me Hyde.

Unfair, unfair- who's to judge?

She thinks I'm crazy, I know I'm insane.

Sounds like laughter

Sounds like complaint

Depends on the day

Depends on the second.

Twisted like rope.

She said summer sun; she said winter glaze.

Unfair, unfair- who's to judge?

Pure as a saint, but a sinner for sure.

Sounds like birdsong

Sounds like sex

Depends on the night

Depends on the hour.

I always want another bite.

She told me I'm one way, two ways

Too many ways.

One for one person

One for the other.

Everyone has a different version

Of my ill self.

I talk too fast when I'm excited. Sparks go off in my head, time doesn't matter anymore. Everything I think spills out, muddled, jumbled, incomprehensible. My thoughts are too fast, my body is too slow. Only you can keep up. Quick on your feet, faster in the head. You can catch every word, take them out of my mouth. I savor every word that comes out of yours. I don't remember much; I never try to remember much. Unuseful things are boring, go in one ear and out the other. But you say the most unusual things, so I hear every word.

I've been writing in white lately. You know how you can type in white on google docs and whatnot, on a white page, and can only see the words if you highlight over the writing? Yes, that's what it's like when you speak in white. White noise. If the words don't matter, why say anything? The only reason to speak is if something strikes a chord, if someone strikes your chord. No reason to speak at home if nobody listens to listen. No reason to write unless the right people read.