Naked is the new clothed

Here we see Minor Triad fufilling two of its main functions simultaneously: procrastination and resurrection. As I tried to write autobiographically, I somehow managed to remember a piece of writing Peter had procrastinated his last high school assignment with, and managed to uncover it in my endless Hotmail archives. I like it even more now that I've had three years removed from the subject matter, particularly the sixth paragraph, which I will be quoting in my paper for tomorrow, mostly unwritten as of yet.

Even you, you motherfucker, indeed. Enjoy:

I am about to finish the last assignment that I will ever complete for the Forest City Community School District. It's a 200 word spanish composition. The topic is to review a movie that we watched in class, The Milagro Beanfield War. Why is it that I am sitting here procrastinating? Why do I not crank out the 170 words (probably fewer) that I still need and go to bed? It is, after all, 1:59. I have no idea.

It isn't as though this sort of behavior is particularly new. Senioritis probably set in at least a month ago, a great deal later than most people, I might add. So, what is it? Why do I feel completely content to stare at this screen, albeit through my 3M Easy Clean Filter, and let my contacts dry themselves into plate glass? Why are my fingers most motivated by placing fruitless ramblings into my notepad file, which will probably be lost and erased when I reformat?

I sit here and search for every possible distraction. I check ancient websites that I visited in 1998, and not since, for updates and new pictures of Calvin and Hobbes or some other crap like that. I adjust the volume, now the bass, now the treble of my stereo. No, that isn't quite right. Now, I change the little digitally emulated iTunes EQ. By this time the song has changed, and it's all wrong again. Suck.

I leaf through my little pile of Senior Pictures. Friends from this year, from last year, from the year before. Where are they now? They could tell me what the hell my problem is, and why I can't think of even two more words to describe my feelings on The Milagro Beanfield War. Actually, the only Spanish word I can think of at all right now is chingar, but I couldn't conjugate it well enough to insult or offend even a potato (papa, there's two I suppose). No, they don't know what my problem is either, in fact most of them have it as well, but at least they could distract me for another minute. They can't help.

And then I start to wonder... Maybe I just don't want it all to be over. Maybe it has been nice. And maybe going away and leaving them all, and going to the coast, and living with a bunch of intellectual druggie bisexual hippie weirdo sex freaks will really fuck me up and leave me wanting something that I had, but can never get back. Because it ends tomorrow. Wow, maybe I'm getting somewhere with this? I leaf through the pictures again. It's just one of those "am I just paranoid, am I just stoned?" questions, and I'm really neither.

Why can't we hate and loathe and betray each other and make this easy? Why do I have so much respect for all of you? Even you you motherfucker! You used to point at me in the fourth grade and you wouldn't be my square dancing partner, presumably because I was eloquent and badly dressed and myopic and I thought about you being naked before it was the fashion? And now everything is so different. I'm still myopic, and all of us are badly dressed because it's cool and I'm even more eloquent and so are you and the naked thing is just a given at this point, and we respect each other.

It is good. And it won't ever be this good for "us" again. But, for us it'll just get better. And for some of us it'll get better, or at least stay the same for "you and me", and that's pretty damned good. But for now it's time to go off, even if that's just down the block, and be what we need to be now, poor hippy druggie satan wierdo oversexed intellectual jesus rich blue collar moron genius freaks. I swear to god, I'm going to dog ear these pictures tonight.

This feels really good now, and I'm ready, and tomorrow, and the next day, and Sunday, I'm damned sure going to take notice. I'm going to appreciate you people, you bastards and you saints. For everything that you've been for me and failed to be for me. Some of you I'll talk to, some of us will wave, some will five, some will shake hands. And we'll laugh and talk and read our Senior Warwhoops. Some of you I won't even see, but we'll still know.

I'm going to write it now. I'll probably get a C or at least a B, sort of fitting for a last assignment. Leaving in a blaze of mediocrity. I suppose it is spanish. Anyway, I won't blame myself. I won't even blame Jacobson. It's your fault, all of you.