it’s MINE, motherfucker!

Sometimes I think about the absurdity of it all. All of us. Chasing those beloved green trees. The ground up, dead ones. (and fives, twenties, hundreds.)

Everything is made up.

I get to thinking about how in my teenage years, the only teenage years I’ll ever get, I’m sitting here, on this governement provided stool, avoiding the things that “have to be done.” Who decided that while I’m 16, and never will be again, I should spend 8-10 hours every weekday obsessing over meaningless formulas and rubrics? A commitee of old fat white guys? I know, an education is good, but for what?

For playing the goddamn game, that’s what.

The one we have all been thrown into, trying to win enough to stop playing. The chase for money. Tag, your it. Forever. Chase it. Keep running. It’s embedded into everything.

Of course, you’ve heard this all before, and just because it comes from a self righteous bitchy teenager doesn’t make it more interesting, I understand that. But sometimes, I don’t want to wake up at 6:30 to brush up my teeth, hair, and brain. Sometimes I don’t want to do problems 2-18 and 32-60 evens. Sometimes I don’t want to be told where I can stand and when I can shit.

Can’t I just sip a kool-aid in the snow at one oclock on a Monday?

My study hall teachers response is:

“You can do that on your own time.”

WHAT? If this isn’t my time, then who’s fucking time is it? I’d really like to know.

Let’s quit our day jobs and go play “Little House on the Prairie” for 10 or so years.

Who’s with me? (Kool-aid will be provided.)