...continues from.
The alarms' screech pushes me to my feet 32 minutes til blast off...wallet...check. Homework...check. Pistol...check. Two fat joints, check. 15 minutes til blast off. Cereal and glass of Pepsi will do. 7:15 time to run. The blast of Jeff's horn out front is the signal, let's get stoned and get to school.
Business Management first hour, how ironic. Could have taught this class in 7th grade. I think a nap sounds great. B+! and old Mr. Brittlepie knew I was baked everyday. He despised me... I abhorred him and we were as cordial as kittens! He hated my status and what he thought I stood for and I hated the symbolism in him."'What a boy may become,' Headline story at 8:00!"
Looking back now, my potential impact was already being bled from me. Drop by pure untainted drop. Pure life blood left on the West side of the gym and up in the catwalk.
To be continued...
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