November 13, 2010

Extacy--? Eckxtacy--? Ehkcsacey--?

I hate the MAC lab. Nothing against macs, but PCs are the only computers in school that allow for emulators. And if I’m on a computer, I have to be playing Pokemon, and that’s that.

But we’re in the MAC lab today, and I have still found a way to do nothing and still get all of my work done. To waste more time, I went to the bathroom. Also because I had to pee.

I leave the lab, and there are some students outside sitting on the floor. Another kid, who looks to be a freshman (the entire grouping does, so let’s assume they are) storms up to them. Quite irate, the boy asks loudly, “why would you tell him about extacy?”

Not “the extacy,” like “why would you tell him I have/do/have done drugs.” Or, “My stash of extacy.”
But no. His question was “why would you tell him about extacy?”

As if this person had never heard of said drug before. As if this child was seriously indignant at the mere idea that a person told another person about a subject.

But I couldn’t hear more of the conversation. I was walking fast to begin with, and my slowing down earned me quizzical looks from what I was beginning to realize was actually a gaggle, an army, of these tiny freshman. There was no way to slow down more without having to explain myself to them. My pace was at a crawl and by that time I was so into my own head whatever they may or may not have said was unintelligible behind my own thoughts of “what the hell were they talking about?”

If only I could have turned around and asked, or had the idea to turn around as if I had forgotten something (But for the bathroom? It seems unnecessary). I was filled with self loathing and nagging curiosity.
I worked up the courage during my short stint in the restroom and came out a renewed and enlightened woman, confident of my ability to figure out what the fuck was up.

And they were gone.
Serves me right for peeing.


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