As I sit in class my mind wanders, staring outside doesn’t dull it, which is my usual antidote to the lull that is lecture. The fog consumes me and my mind turns to dreams and creams. Milk shakes, banana milkshakes and blue, green, pink cotton candy that dyes your fingers, my fingers, while I dream of the personal male Moulin Rouge that is baseball games, a pair of baseball pants and I’m speechless. I can’t take notes on what Pop. Culture is because my craving for tobacco and nicotine has taken over since I stopping the drinking of the Holiday break and the pop of my gum is the only thing keeping me from reaching into the worn track jacket of the red head in front of me to steal his Marlboros. So I sit popping and pushing, pushing my bruises so that I can feel the pain that you spoke of, that took your mind away from learning.
Sitting on the side of the bathtub waiting for the bubbles to consume me waiting for steaming water to soothe away the pain from the re-pushed bruises and the eternal broken heart that has spoken out in the from of bruised ribs. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to think. Maybe I shouldn’t wrestle boys when I’ve drunken a bottle of red to myself or otherwise.