My teachers know me better than Dad does...
5:15 p.m. on 2006-03-28



He probably thinks I have a boyfriend. That would explain my lack of sleep. My boyfriend, in Dad's imagination, would drive a "hotrod" and insist I chip in for gas.




Maybe I should’ve gone away to boarding school--somewhere in the Great White North with lots of brick-sided buildings and murky-smelling coffee bars where hipsters pretend to study.




We spend the weekend staring at the TV and not talking to each other. When he drops me off at school on Monday morning, I get out of the car before it stops moving.



Dad calls my name.



I give him a four-letter look.




“You forgot your lunch.”




I troop back to the truck. He tosses the paper bag (which I prepared for myself this morning--grilled cheese smothered with sprouts). I take the bag and turn to leave.




“Have a stupendous day,” he says.




I stare. There's something in his inverted-triangle smile that seems forced.




“So you’ll call me?” he says.




I don't answer. I'm already shuffling down the sidewalk. When he waves goodbye, I don't wave back.




f-i-n.



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