Archive for September 4th, 2012

Tuesday, 4th September, 2012

My head is aching, school today was buzzing away with inane chatter all day. I don’t like talking much – to people I mean. I talk a lot in my head, but I don’t like to share. God I hate Americanisms – we might as well sing Yankee Doodle and be done with it. Americans make their youth the most pathetic telly I’ve ever seen in my life, such utter crap it makes you want to throw the TV out of the window.

It was the fact that I didn’t share, that made people start minding my business instead of their own. First it was my mother (don’t start getting excited here – I’m not about to spill my guts about some terrible abuse or other rubbish like that. Yes, she and my dad have split up – so, bloody what, it happens all the time, get over it.) She thought that I didn’t express myself enough; she thought that I was too different from my elder sister or my younger brother. They shared, they shared all the time – it was mind-numbingly dull. I wouldn’t inflict my sharing like that – my siblings have no idea what self-indulgent bores they were, are, they’re still with us. The more she worried about this lack of conversation, soul baring etc. The more I closed up to her advances. That is not a sexual reference – don’t get excited, if you think I know too much about Freudian slips and such like, then you’d be right. Because, these days, when parents can’t infiltrate your brain, they call in the experts. Experts! That’s a laugh, a great big, stomach-churning laugh. But I’m rushing now, getting ahead of myself. But even if I do, I think you can keep up – it’s not me who will treat you as if you are a numbskull, I think your brain can make sense of a non-linear discussion, unless you’re a total arse, in which case, get on with discussing Beckham.

Back to my mother. She worried and I let her. I wasn’t craving attention, (that’s what counsellor number 1 thought. Her name was Sally Martin, “please call me Sally,” she simpered with one of those taught smiles lurking around her chin.) But good old Sally was wrong, in fact, the opposite was true. I wanted my mother to leave me alone. I wanted her to stop asking those inane questions.

“Did you have a good day at school?”

What the hell are you supposed to say to that?

The closest answer to the truth would have been. NO, I would rather have spent the day chewing off my right foot.

But that’s not really an acceptable answer. Because that answer is either:

  1. Cheeky, or rude, or antagonistic – choose the word that suits the occasion.
  2. Me being funny, then we can pretend I love school really.
  3. Evidence that I am a psychopath.

The funny thing is that when people ask you questions, they often don’t want an answer; I can feel another list coming on.

Questions people don’t want answers to:

But I’m going to leave the list for a moment, because it has reminded me of this: I had an interaction at school today, I almost never speak to people at school, but, for once, I couldn’t restrain myself.

This is how it happened.

I was lurking outside the door to the maths room, minding my own business. There is a girl in school who’s called Jade – you know, parents who don’t know what to call a child so take up the latest fashion. Anyway, Jade is a real product of her naming. She was talking to Rebecca (not too bad a name, but really fashionable at the moment, just like Emma). Jade was telling Rebecca about how her parents were paying for her to have breast implants for her eighteenth birthday. . . It’s not that I actually interacted on purpose, a huge snort of derision just escaped.

“What’s so funny?” Jade asked me in a fury, rounding on me with an expression of thwarted status on her face.

“Why?” I asked her calmly, clearly meaning why the implants.

Even though she has less brain activity going on in her head than a shop dummy she knew what I meant, but her answer, nevertheless, was an absolute corker.

Her face remained deadpan as she dutifully explained to me: “So I can have bigger breasts.”

There is a saying “ask a stupid question and you’ll get a stupid answer.” In this case it should be, “ask a question of a stupid person and you can wet your pants for a week over the answer.”