at the moment
Goddamn. I'm seething and my hand is bruised. I shouldn't have punched her in the head. I could have found a softer spot. And I hate that she didn't even try to get me back right away. She doesn't really want to hurt me. I could always beat her up and I still can, though now she's bigger and I haven't grown since 7th grade. After I punched her in the head she called me a nasty skank or something clever like that, and I responded in kind with a thoughtless generic insult, and she went wild and attacked my mom. "I FUCKING HATE YOU! DO YOU HAVE TO TELL HER EVERYTHING?!?!? YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH!!" Mom, crying and defeated, "I didn't tell her anything. I didn't do anything." "YES YOU DID! DID YOU HEAR WHAT SHE JUST CALLED ME??" crying, shreaking. Ohhh, my subhuman scumhood confirmed. I tried to jump in and scream that she didn't tell me anything . . . didn't work. Why couldn't she have just gotten mad at me and attacked me instead. She made a half-hearted attempt to charge me, and stopped just too far away for flailing punches to land effectively. She's still just a little girl . . . how can I say such mean things to a little girl?
And yet, I am ageless; no number connects to my current identity. 17 and 18 hold vague familiarity. Yet at the moment, I am ancient. I cannot explain why I claim agelessness when I have experienced so little of life . . . regardless, at the moment I feel a genuine understanding of what is. I have my episodes of topical self-involved childishness (see above) . . . but the real me, the sub-epidermal me with whom only I have become familiar, feels an obligation to understand individuals, to observe them as if they were genetically-altered lab rats in my own sick and twisted experiments. I look upon their silly little lives and comment in a detached fashion upon the scrambling of the little humans as they fight to cope with their quaint little emotions. And I can do this because I am not human.
Nothing surprises me. I anticipate your move, and I wait to parry.
Well then. It's just all about me, isn't it?
And yet, I am ageless; no number connects to my current identity. 17 and 18 hold vague familiarity. Yet at the moment, I am ancient. I cannot explain why I claim agelessness when I have experienced so little of life . . . regardless, at the moment I feel a genuine understanding of what is. I have my episodes of topical self-involved childishness (see above) . . . but the real me, the sub-epidermal me with whom only I have become familiar, feels an obligation to understand individuals, to observe them as if they were genetically-altered lab rats in my own sick and twisted experiments. I look upon their silly little lives and comment in a detached fashion upon the scrambling of the little humans as they fight to cope with their quaint little emotions. And I can do this because I am not human.
Nothing surprises me. I anticipate your move, and I wait to parry.
Well then. It's just all about me, isn't it?