Monday, September 11, 2006

Jeff: You've got to be kidding me

Bob... I should call him Mr Adams, he's my Science teacher but it sticks in my throat... hit us with a goddamn biology test this morning. Apparently 'Brianna' and the class had the whole summer to study for it--and really, what kind of bastard gives study material over summer vacation and a test soon after you get back--but was I ready for it?

Shit. It's not like I was pulling A's in science my last year, either. Tell me, how much do you remember about mitochondria? Yeah, exactly. And know what makes writing a surprise test about something you haven't studied in over two years even harder? Writing it while wearing a fucking skirt when you've never worn one before. Was wearing this cute little pleated thing--real schoolgirl like and

Suddenly felt sick there and had to stop writing. Cute? Yeah... on a girl, dammit. I'm still coming to terms with that, okay? I don't want to be cute. I don't want these fourteen-year old pervs trying to peak up my skirt when I'm going up the stairs or snapping my bra strap or... any of this shit.

And now I've got some stupid essay to write and a worksheet to fill out and... God, I don't remember having this much shit to do when I was fourteen. Not that I can't wiz through it, but it's not what I expected. Not sure why I care, really. This isn't my life.

But screw it, I better get it done. I'd rather hide in my room and deal with homework than try and figure out my new 'mom'. I lost my real mom when I was really young, you see.

(And when I say 'lost' I mean the bitch ran off with someone that wasn't Pop. You think it's wrong to call your mom a bitch? Yeah, well you don't know how she screwed the family over.)

Anyway, suddenly I've got a 'mom' again... but her name's Linda, and I can actually get away with calling her Linda, and she's a total nutjob. And a drunk. And Brianna's an only-child, which means I get to deal with all her pent-up crazies when she gets drunk and wants to talk to someone. She's pounding it back tonight so I've locked the door and I'm blaring out some crap music.

Being fourteen sucks. Being a girl sucks. Being in high school again? God, that sucks deer balls. There's loads more I want to get off my chest

How messed up is that? I've got a chest. I've got a damn fine rack for a fourteen year old.

Did I just write that? This is really, really messing with my head. I feel like a pedophile when I look in the mirror and that... that's weird and wrong and I think I'm going to hit that stash of Pop's booze I stole a few nights ago.

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