slow to post
This is a backblog post. I can’t really remember what I did on this day, so here’s a little story for you, about the first time I said a word over and over so much it lost all meaning:
When I was nine years old I smoked for the first time. I stole a pack of cigarettes from my moms’ carton. She was in the hospital so I figured she’d never know. I hid the pack in my room. The next time I had friends over my dad was at work and mom was still in the hospital; it was the right time to bust out the smokes.
It seemed like smoking in my parents room made the most sense. They smoked in there. There were big windows and a huge old fan, we could make the smoke go away. So we stood around and smoked. We all coughed a bit, played with the fan and the cigarettes and the smoke. Whatever. It wasn’t that great, the exhileration of knowing we were being bad was what really did it for us.
One of the other girls went home and was found out. Her mom smelled the smoke on her, and she straight told her what we did. She gave us up! Me! She didn’t even lie a little bit, like to keep me out of trouble. I was pissed. I found this out at her house, and that her mom had called my dad. Ooooo. Now I was really mad.
As I walked home, I was running my hand along the chain fence, fuming. Muttering, almost sing-songing, about how I hated Kelly (my friend) and Belle (her mom, who was not a belle), as I my hand vibrated with the fence. “She’s fat and I hate her. Belle’s fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat.”
And the word ‘fat’ lost all meaning to me then. And again just now, retelling that story. Oh, and later, we had to go see the school counselor. She asked us if we were sure we were smoking cigarettes, not marijuana joints. I told her I wasn’t that dumb, even if I was nine.
March 30
Paul took a big drop. Like 5 feet. That was on the way up on the ride when he fell. SnapGallery photos to come. But not of the fall.
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