He carried a gun in his chest, covered in layers thick with ridicule and insult. He never said much, he sat back and soaked in what was said about him, and he believed it all. He was sick, his teachers were wrong.

One day his head exploded. The gun had gone off. And where his head been, roses now grew, rooted in the layers of compost filth that, over the years, had collected in his chest.

I wonder why everyone feels like they need to smile when being photographed. Is it some sort of narcissistic longing to admire oneself, or is it to make it appear as if you are happy, for later reference and encouragement? hmmm.

His father was an alcoholic, that I’m sure of. He would wake at night to the sound of his father yelling obscenities, smashing bottles, and striking his mom. He would close his eyes as tight as he could, his face crinkled, cover his ears, and dream that he was somewhere, anywhere but here. Every once in a while his dad would scream his name, “Michael!”

Michael would cup his hands over his face in to a bowl, collecting his tears. Sobbing hysterically, wondering what it is that could inspire his father to do such things.

His father had a normal job, typing in to a computer all day. Michael could remember one time, a few years back, his father had taken him to work. He sat quietly, and everyone was polite. He was in a room full of makeshift plastic cubicles and fluorescent lights. Everyone seemed sick. Everyone walked around like drones, fake gestures and rehearsed responses. The windows shades were always drawn.

He did not like this place. Nor did his father.

Yesterday, roughly 10 blocks from my school, in pioneer square a man was shot dead over a bottle of xanax.

And today wells fargo, the bank I bank at, located just across the street from my school, got robbed. They had several blocks closed off because the gunman was hiding in an apartment building near my school. On my commute to the bus stop I was forced, by police, to do some detouring. There was police tape all over the place.

Jesus.

I really have no words to say about this right now, maybe later.

After a monumental homework day, completing two essays, designing and printing out the design layout of a book, and binding it by hand(hard cover and all), I am still far behind in my assignments. That on top of having to prepare and perform talks in front of the class have warn me down. I am so stressed out. It feels like the sky is falling. Every waking minute is clouded in bothersom thoughts of homework, and how I should be doing it, but I procrastrinate and I refrain from doing it until the last minute. The last minute is now. And its not just little assignments, these are things that will decide the outcome of this term.

It's probably some sort of imaturity, but I really hate becoming an adult. I miss monkey bars, swings and bicycles. I miss my daily walk to my friends house, and asking his mom if he could come out and play. I miss waking up at six in the morning to run to the tv and watch cartoons.

It's all downhill after elementary school.

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