crazed.
crazed.
High school only held so much weight in my heart, and Ferris Bueller’s day off was by far one of the highest peaks on my priority list. Fact is,
Matthew Broderick andhis damned Ferrari.
I sat jilted on the college track while my friends got the glory of the blue collar classes and everything they entailed,
in auto shop and having sword fights with shovels in agriscience.
Cutting class was not something I did regularly, mostly because there was nothing to do in town outside of
hanging out at and smoking newport menthols while blasting tunes through our thirty dollar subwoofers.
Being a high schooler in a dead little country town was one thing, but a
rock and roll
and our own personal constructions of the1970s put us in a real pickle.
Sitting,
twitching so we could run for the woods at the edge of campus with the dictionary clutched firmly under one arm.
We had done this a few times,
cutting out like prize horses at the Kentucky Derby as soon as the bell rang. We ran from the gates with our shaggy hair and hairless faces to the edge of the woods, catching our breaths and then continuing the trek deeper into the piney wooded lot where we would be safe and
out of sight.
this was and ripping a page out of a book to roll up some grass was a mix of Third Reich evil, some sort of false buddhist idealism (in our eyes) and
some kind of untouchable badassery that could not and would not be surpassed.
We would never talk once we crossed the boundary from a casual stroll after calculus to an all out great escape from the confines of that damned place.
reaching that place was like reaching
our eyes glazed quickly and our gazes lingered in the direction of the brick penitentiary where we would be spending our afternoons copying words from the very book we had used to relish in our seventeen-ness.
detention oozed or some other great force of nature that was beyond us.
for every page we ripped from the oxford condensed, we probably copied ten
under the
improving our vocabulary and getting our kicks.