Kill the effing rainbow already

Kill the effing rainbow already.

By A the Eist. *A message from the author* This is NOT completed or even close to being such. However I was inspired to get some dreadful insight on it and its current progress. If you hate it please comment very dirty things that would smoosh the feelings of most human beings, I can take it. If you love it, then you probably wont even be close to helpful. Truly yours, A the Eist.          







                “BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!” my alarm clock shrieks, shattering the silence and replacing it with an annoyance. I ignore it, “ maybe it will stop,” My half functional mind says to me. I throw the covers atop my head and sink into a ball. But my alarm clock persists.
         “BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!”
         Before I act, I release a sigh. In this sigh, you will find what will surely be a reflection of the following day. I slowly creep my hand to my night-stand and smack around very impatiently until the racket ceases. At this point you may, as I recollect the events, add in your mind the music of “Rain drops” by BJ Thomas.
         The morning is grim, and no excitement is lingering in the air. The deep fog outside seems to cast its gloomy glow into my soul.
         I follow my footsteps that I have pressed into my floor by continuing the same pattern every morning for 5 years. Everything is the same, to the last detail. I step out of bed and find my way to the kitchen where I have a Red Bull and light a cigarette. “Nicotine and Broads,” My uncle used to say to me, “Their the only things that are co-dependent in this world.”
         I walk my way to the bathroom and twist the Hot nob 112 degrees, and the Cold nob 93 degrees. I then brush my 32 teeth 47 times apiece, whilst my cigarette lays on the sink. I wash out my mouth, and take one last long drag off of the frail, white stick and toss it into the toilet.
         While showering I predict the day ahead. “Nothing interesting will happen,” I say aloud, just as always. And every day I am right, and every statistic I had about my life pointed to exactly that, however today, statistic’s wont matter, for It will in fact, be a day that I will never forget.
         You may now take away the music if you like, it no longer applies.
         On my way out of the shower, after tightly fastening the nobs to be sure no water was sneaking from the faucet, I flush down the cigarette that laid in the toilet. I walk through the house with a towel tightened around my waist, and whistle no particular tune. When I reach my room I don my clothing for the day and then squirm in my agony for a bit.
         “DEDEDEDEDEDE,” The phone shoots.
         I stare at it, as if daring it to ring once more.
          “DEDEDEDEDEDE”
         Slowly, I embrace it, and very un-enthused answer.

         “Hello?”
         “Thomas? Hey, I was just making sure your awake for school.”
         “Yes mom, I’m ready.”
         “Well try not to be late today, remember every day counts!”
         I don’t respond to this- For future reference, my mother is the most enthusiastic human being about the upcoming day on the planet we know as earth.
         “Have a good day,” She continues.
         “Goodbye.” I put the phone firmly against its receiver.
         Now I have a motive to defy authority, so I decide I will be late today. I find another cigarette in the kitchen and take my time with it before exiting the spacious two story home.
         In the drive way sits a car with two doors, one of which opens, and ironically is not on the side of the steering wheel. Its paint in patches, and each patch contained a color I hated. Brown, Lavender, Maroon, the tastelessness continued.
         Every day my hopes are low, and I walk outside to see this heap, and my hopes die all together.
         I hop into the passenger side and shimmy my way across to the drivers seat and tightly take hold to the steering wheel. I don’t bother to check my mirrors, or fasten my seatbelt, as it would do absolutely no good, for I could pay less attention on the road as it is, and the seatbelt doesn’t tighten. I throw the car into drive and begin my long, meaningless drive to school.
         On the way I like to imagine car crashes. To each car that passes me, I imagine some type of horrific Michael Bay inspired disaster. A flat tire sending it into a zag and then over an imaginary cliff. Or perhaps a simple distraction sending some poor innocent soul flying through the air until the car reaches the asphalt and becomes merely a ball of sharp metal and broken glass.
         When I finally arrive at school, I check my pockets to be sure I have my cigarettes and a lighter, and then dig out as much loose change as possible.
         On this particular day its already four minutes past the time I am expected to be at school, therefore, I being a fan of prime numbers refuse to exit my car for another three minutes, and in this time contemplate returning home. Over and over again I draw the plan out in my mind, but the more rational side of me keeps saying “Is this place really worse?” I listen to that side.
         Finally the time of eight thirty two snaps onto my clock and I shimmy to the passenger seat and make my way out of the heap.
         Once inside the lousy excuse for an educational building I strut to the front office and sign my name into the stupid little book that reads “TARDY” in big bright red letters, as if it is a piece of parchment that if signed, assured your head to be taken away on a platter.
         “Stupid effing school,” I say under my breath.
         I avoid detection by the amazingly unpresent staff that was supposed to be hounding me with questions as to my whereabouts of the past seven minutes, but of course they are to busy spending their planning period in the copy room sipping on sugared down coffee and discussing what student has what “creepy” piercing, and which kids were most likely to “go bowling”.
         “Stupid effing faculty,” I say under my breath.
         Now off to class, first block is some type of computer science class that I spend online flaming anyone happier than I.
         I walk into the classroom and no one pays a damn mind. They all go about there busy business, their little fingers smacking the keyboard making the most awful little racket. I take a seat at the only computer left available. It’s a dingy white color and reeks of old age and poor style. I much prefer the slick black ones that have a very sharp feel to them, but I being a fan of prime numbers count my luck by getting the third computer in the row. I press the first tiny circle on the big long thing, then the second big circle on the big square thing.
         Before I begin my “work” I remember that I missed twice last week and muster a very lethargic dash of dialogue,
         “Mrs. Hutchinson did I miss any work last week?”
         The feeble old lady doesn’t even move. My words didn’t find there way into the deaf ears of the hag. I maintain patience, and ask once more, this time a bit louder.
         “Mrs. Hutchinson,” I stop to see if her head swings up. It does. “Did I miss any work in the past week?”
         She seems dumbfounded, I could tell she had no idea what in the hell I was talking about, nor did she hear the first word in the damn question. I turn my head as if I had never gotten her attention, and she quickly forgets her name was brought up.
         The screen of the computer brightens up and a big obnoxious greeting appears.
         “WELCOME!” The retarded effing text reads. I quickly shun it from my attention and click the floating E.
         I follow my usual routine, go to my usual sites, you know, time passers.
         Within forty five minutes I have decapitated 27 penguins and sent their heads lobbing across land mines, have told 3 kids to kill themselves, and have been hit in the head with a piece of paper once. Strike that, have been hit in the head with a piece of paper twice now. I turn my attention to the little bastard who did it, Ricky Hail. This little closet queer has been on my case since I came out last year.
         Did I forget to mention that? Yes meet the least literal definition of the word gay, yet largest participant of such sin.
         I cock my eyebrow at the little bastard and give him a look to let him understand there would be no third time a piece of paper touched me. He gave me a look back that said, “I secretly want you,” To which I changed my look, so that I would be giving him a look that said “Get near my breeches and Ill scalp you with a potato peeler.”          He got the hint and turned his head.
         The clock now read that we had a mere 43 minutes of class left, which was my Que to go pollute our schools bowel irrigation facility with smoke. I walk out and no one notices, aside from that creepy little bastard Ricky.
         I go, I smoke, I return, no questions are posed.
         The next bit of time is passed by staring at the clock. Have you ever stared at a clock? The hands, all working together, take their damn time crossing the finish line that is 9:55. They each take their precious little time, which is itself ironic that clock hands have time to spare at all.
         Finally the time approaches, perhaps two, three minutes away and I feel another stupid effing piece of paper hit me right in the back of the neck. Now its not as if these little minor inconveniences hurt, or rattle my brain with fear, its just the fact that the damn boy has the gull to do this all in the sake of his reason, which if I quote correctly is “Eww, fag!” when I myself have given the boy mouth to mouth in the mens room at the Y.
         I turn to face the little cocky bastard and give him a piece of my effing mind, and turn to see he’s flinching. I rotate back around, and mind my own for the next few brief moments, and finally am relieved of my cares by the bell.
         I make my way through the clutter of people in the hallway to the cafeteria for break. I find the same corner I do everyday and wait for the only friend I had to come strolling through, just as uncaring as I. However today something totally, and to the full extent of the word, “queer” happens. The same Victor I know is no where to be found, his presence is normally detected by the gloom he carried around him, however today I only see a bouncing teenager, who is hopeful with the dreams of his youth. He is running towards me, arms flapping, legs sprinting. I’m almost worried at this point.
         “OH MY GOD GUESS WHAT!?” Victor says, far to excited.
         “What in the hells happened to you?” I ask.
         “You know that guy I was telling you about?”
         “The one who works at the effing shoe store?”
         “Yea him!”
         “Well what the hell about him?”
         “He stayed over last night.”
         My mouth damn near drops, and my head begins to race with questions, ranging from, “How big?” to “Does he have a foot fetish, cause I’ve heard..” but I cant spit any of them out.
         “Well!?” Victor demanded.
I stop myself from replying, for I cant deny my envy. The person he describes was directly down anyone’s alley. Tall, tan, well groomed, a hint of muscle tone. But its not Victor I envy. It’s the person he describes. More on that latter.
         “WELL!?!?” The rambunctious teenager demands.
         I spit out the only thing I can think of,
         “Nicotine and Broads,”
         “What?”
         Oh dear, not sure how to justify that one.
         “Never mind, so how was it?” I ask pushing the subject along.
         “Amazing!” He began to go into detail, but I stopped myself from listening. Truth be told I loved Victor. Maybe not like that, you know, all kissey kissey, huggy huggy, but it was some kind of love.
         I began to recollect all the times I wished I had went in for that kiss, or told Victor how I felt, as he describes his weekend escapade with a boy who probably will never call him again, and doesn’t give a single effing damn of his well being. As I dwelled on it I continuously got more and more angry. By the time I had dwelled on it enough I realized Victor was no longer speaking, he was in fact awaiting some type of response. I hate it when that happens. You know, when you pretend your listening to someone, but actually are in your own little world, and then notice they actually expect you to interact. So once more I respond with the first thing that comes to mind.
         “You know that shoe store is on Third street, threes a prime number.”
         He gives me the most baffled look he’s given me in a while, and continues on with his little details. I try to fade out again, but am catching random bits and pieces this time. I keep trying to drowned it out with the music of the 80's, a musical era that no one can ignore do to its beautiful use of keytar’s and keyboards that made noises like “PWU” and “ZING”. However occasionally words would fall in my ears like, “BIG!” and “Cuddled”. I try to stay semi-attentive so as I can respond when it becomes necessary, and of course its not long before it does,

         “So after that he took me to that little restaurant on Fifth and Second Ave., you know the little Chinese one...oh what’s it called?”
         “Little Wok?”
         “Yea, that’s it!”
         The poor boy is so damn excited that he’s actually hopping as he speaks. Not that I can blame him, I’ve not always been this depressed, no I’ve had my share of love affairs.
         “BRBRBRBBRBRBRBRB” The old and rusted bell spits.
         “Cant wait to hear more...” I say quickly jumping far, far, away from the conversation. I hear him say something to the extent of, “Wait, there’s more!” as I fade into the swarm of people trying to fit into the tiniest doorway. I hate it when people cant just open an effing door. There are two doors, they only use one of which. As if they are to stupid to push a metal bar in and proceed forward until its opening. As a matter of fact all you really need do is run into the damn thing and it will open. They’re all so stupid.


*Its an effing work in progress*