I was paid 35 cents a week to walk some kindergarteners to school.
I posed for the portrait lady mother. She made me wear a brown dress with stupid flowers on it. She drew me pretty cuz she felt sorry for me, being from the wrong side of the tracks and all.
Or maybe I am pretty.
I’m in Mrs. Marchant’s 5th grade class. She’s a drill sergeant. She never cracks a smile.
The boys used to peek under her desk at no underwear. When she called on me random I peed my pants. I burst out of the room holding hot piss in my hands like a cup.
I couldn’t tell you if it was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I watched for signs.
I learned to be resourceful.
That should be one of the 10 fucking commandments.
It was then that I found out I was an artist.
They’d surround my table and make me perform pictures like a carnival monkey.
They’d plaster the walls with my stuff. I knew it was my only way to survive.
My right brain is useless.
On the way home, some older boys walked up to me. I’m grateful for the attention.
They give me a quarter to take off my sweater. Another one to take off my underwear.
I can’t earn anymore because I don’t have tits. I mention it to Olman at dinner cuz I think it’s funny. He goes to the principle’s office the next day.
The boys get suspended for a week. One’s father owns a fleet of trucks.
The other hangs Christmas lights like a side show. Another, some CEO god.
I was born with Limey white skin. Walkin’ the two-mile trek to school is like Croatia.
They’d sneak behind trees and throw Albino girl pebbles. The fat girls beat me up.
I’d trip over my big nose.
But it wasn’t all that bad. I found out how to play with myself.
I made pottery mud pies.
I rode my bicycle up and down. Up and down.
I dressed my dog in people clothes.
I’d sit under the 150 foot spruce tree, draw in the dirt and made stick furniture and pinecone people.
I performed 3 act plays and rode a horse with cowboys and Indians.
I’d pick dandelions for Olman’s soup.
I decided I was smart.
My best friend, Andrea Benito, was some kinda Boston Mafia girl. One day, we were hackin’ around. I chased her, tryin’ to punch her in the face. She slammed the French glass doors on my fist and released a bunch of tendons from my wrist.
Milky white stringy stuff that doesn’t bleed right away. A better anatomy lesson than slicing frogs. The next day, under the spruce tree, we tried to break her arm with a rock so she could have a cast like mine.
How cool is that?
I posed for the portrait lady mother. She made me wear a brown dress with stupid flowers on it. She drew me pretty cuz she felt sorry for me, being from the wrong side of the tracks and all.
Or maybe I am pretty.
I’m in Mrs. Marchant’s 5th grade class. She’s a drill sergeant. She never cracks a smile.
The boys used to peek under her desk at no underwear. When she called on me random I peed my pants. I burst out of the room holding hot piss in my hands like a cup.
I couldn’t tell you if it was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I watched for signs.
I learned to be resourceful.
That should be one of the 10 fucking commandments.
It was then that I found out I was an artist.
They’d surround my table and make me perform pictures like a carnival monkey.
They’d plaster the walls with my stuff. I knew it was my only way to survive.
My right brain is useless.
On the way home, some older boys walked up to me. I’m grateful for the attention.
They give me a quarter to take off my sweater. Another one to take off my underwear.
I can’t earn anymore because I don’t have tits. I mention it to Olman at dinner cuz I think it’s funny. He goes to the principle’s office the next day.
The boys get suspended for a week. One’s father owns a fleet of trucks.
The other hangs Christmas lights like a side show. Another, some CEO god.
I was born with Limey white skin. Walkin’ the two-mile trek to school is like Croatia.
They’d sneak behind trees and throw Albino girl pebbles. The fat girls beat me up.
I’d trip over my big nose.
But it wasn’t all that bad. I found out how to play with myself.
I made pottery mud pies.
I rode my bicycle up and down. Up and down.
I dressed my dog in people clothes.
I’d sit under the 150 foot spruce tree, draw in the dirt and made stick furniture and pinecone people.
I performed 3 act plays and rode a horse with cowboys and Indians.
I’d pick dandelions for Olman’s soup.
I decided I was smart.
My best friend, Andrea Benito, was some kinda Boston Mafia girl. One day, we were hackin’ around. I chased her, tryin’ to punch her in the face. She slammed the French glass doors on my fist and released a bunch of tendons from my wrist.
Milky white stringy stuff that doesn’t bleed right away. A better anatomy lesson than slicing frogs. The next day, under the spruce tree, we tried to break her arm with a rock so she could have a cast like mine.
How cool is that?
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