Angst and Sullenness in Saint Paul
Posted: Wed Feb 17, 2010 4:06 am
((Kimberly Nguyen continued from Lunch for the bored and hungry.))
Kimberly was in the dirty, smelly back alley, feeling dirty and smelly herself, simply by association. It was wonderful. There weren't many places she could go to make her life suck visibly. She was a victim of a terrible misfortune: he family was solidly middle class, and her grandparents seemed allergic to drama, or, for that matter, emotions. It wasn't fair. Here she was, in a fucking hell of a life, and no one would believe a thing she said because she didn't live in the street or prostitute herself to buy meth or shit like that. They thought she had it so easy, living in a big house with grandparents who didn't give a damn if she stayed up all night drinking. She pretended they cared, sometimes she even fooled herself, but it never lasted.
It all went back to Justin's party. She'd come home slightly trashed, reeking of alcohol. She'd been meaning to do something about her shirt, but in the end she'd just tossed it on the floor and slept the party off, and then she'd forgotten to throw her shirt in the wash so it had just sat for a week.
Then, yesterday, Friday, she'd come home to find it sitting, washed and folded, on top of a pile of laundry outside her door. Her grandmother had gone into her room and washed her fucking shirt, the one she'd spilled that nasty whiskey or whatever all over. She'd flipped out, of course. She'd known she was in trouble. She'd gone to her grandmother, all ready to beg forgiveness, and had mentioned that she'd noticed her clothes had been washed. Her grandmother had just grunted and told her to do it herself next time.
She should have been used to it by now. She'd never gotten in any trouble for anything. Her grandparents just didn't care. Her mom would have cared, but she had her own life now, and she only saw Kimberly a few times a year, and besides, she knew she was just practicing wishful thinking. He mother wasn't the sort of person who would make a good real parent. She'd proved that pretty well.
Still, though, her friends were always talking about their control-freak psycho parents. They made it sound so normal, so integral to life. She felt so alone. Everyone else had people who made their lives miserable out of love, and here she was stuck with the consolation prize of fucking apathy. She could do whatever the fuck she wanted, but it didn't even matter. Nothing she did could matter. She could probably go and get her tongue pierced or cut in half down the middle like a snake or whatever and she'd be lucky if her grandfather so much as raised an eyebrow over it.
So her she was, spending her Saturday in the back alley, away from the world, with her little black journal open, loitering, searching for inspiration. She decided that it could wait a second, that for now nicotine would do just as well, and fished out a cigarette. She lit it, pulled her favorite fedora down low over her eyes, and sat against a wall, hugging her knees to her chest. She was wearing all black today, tight pants, a modest tank top, and elbow length, fingerless gloves. She hoped she looked like a modern gumshoe or something. That would be better than just another boring high schooler. Another worthless freak no one cared about.
She sighed, flipped through her notebook. Time to start. She hadn't written in a week. It was time to get back to her poetry.
She wrote:
My life is like the underside of an oil tanker,
rough, unloved,
covered in barnacles and peeling old paint
never to see the light of day
unless the world is suffering beneath a film of slimy tar.
That was a start, but barely. She crossed out "life" and wrote "soul" instead. Maybe she'd get a theme of comparisons going here. She just needed something to express her hatred for the world and the worthless "authority figures" who inhabited it.
Kimberly was in the dirty, smelly back alley, feeling dirty and smelly herself, simply by association. It was wonderful. There weren't many places she could go to make her life suck visibly. She was a victim of a terrible misfortune: he family was solidly middle class, and her grandparents seemed allergic to drama, or, for that matter, emotions. It wasn't fair. Here she was, in a fucking hell of a life, and no one would believe a thing she said because she didn't live in the street or prostitute herself to buy meth or shit like that. They thought she had it so easy, living in a big house with grandparents who didn't give a damn if she stayed up all night drinking. She pretended they cared, sometimes she even fooled herself, but it never lasted.
It all went back to Justin's party. She'd come home slightly trashed, reeking of alcohol. She'd been meaning to do something about her shirt, but in the end she'd just tossed it on the floor and slept the party off, and then she'd forgotten to throw her shirt in the wash so it had just sat for a week.
Then, yesterday, Friday, she'd come home to find it sitting, washed and folded, on top of a pile of laundry outside her door. Her grandmother had gone into her room and washed her fucking shirt, the one she'd spilled that nasty whiskey or whatever all over. She'd flipped out, of course. She'd known she was in trouble. She'd gone to her grandmother, all ready to beg forgiveness, and had mentioned that she'd noticed her clothes had been washed. Her grandmother had just grunted and told her to do it herself next time.
She should have been used to it by now. She'd never gotten in any trouble for anything. Her grandparents just didn't care. Her mom would have cared, but she had her own life now, and she only saw Kimberly a few times a year, and besides, she knew she was just practicing wishful thinking. He mother wasn't the sort of person who would make a good real parent. She'd proved that pretty well.
Still, though, her friends were always talking about their control-freak psycho parents. They made it sound so normal, so integral to life. She felt so alone. Everyone else had people who made their lives miserable out of love, and here she was stuck with the consolation prize of fucking apathy. She could do whatever the fuck she wanted, but it didn't even matter. Nothing she did could matter. She could probably go and get her tongue pierced or cut in half down the middle like a snake or whatever and she'd be lucky if her grandfather so much as raised an eyebrow over it.
So her she was, spending her Saturday in the back alley, away from the world, with her little black journal open, loitering, searching for inspiration. She decided that it could wait a second, that for now nicotine would do just as well, and fished out a cigarette. She lit it, pulled her favorite fedora down low over her eyes, and sat against a wall, hugging her knees to her chest. She was wearing all black today, tight pants, a modest tank top, and elbow length, fingerless gloves. She hoped she looked like a modern gumshoe or something. That would be better than just another boring high schooler. Another worthless freak no one cared about.
She sighed, flipped through her notebook. Time to start. She hadn't written in a week. It was time to get back to her poetry.
She wrote:
My life is like the underside of an oil tanker,
rough, unloved,
covered in barnacles and peeling old paint
never to see the light of day
unless the world is suffering beneath a film of slimy tar.
That was a start, but barely. She crossed out "life" and wrote "soul" instead. Maybe she'd get a theme of comparisons going here. She just needed something to express her hatred for the world and the worthless "authority figures" who inhabited it.