computer, make these guys super gay & horny
It’s the first day in weeks I’ve woken up before 6am. Therefore, it’s the first day in weeks I feel human.
I cherish the early morning hours in a way which would disgust my younger self.
As a child, it was impossible to get me up in the morning.
The thankless task of waking the animal, otherwise known as pre-teen me, would be left to my nanny. She’d hurl my school clothes at me, while I remained a ball under my blankets. If I couldn’t find a way out of going at all (claiming illness, playing dead, throwing a spoiled fit), I’d slowly dress myself under the sheets and slither out of bed like a vampire in direct sunlight.
I was chauffeured to school as a child, mostly by a man named Al who drove a Lincoln Town Car. One year, my grandmother paid a science teacher to pick me up and drop me off, and another year there was a carpool situation worked out with a classmate’s mom. I have no confirmation of this, but in retrospect I think both of those situations fell through due to my unwillingness to be ready on time. I think that’s why my grandmother settled on the hired professional driver long-term. She never drove in her lifetime, and my grandfather had Leukemia nobody liked to talk about. Although, I’m not sure either of them would have driven me to school on a daily basis had that not been the case.
In 5th grade, I was pulled out of school entirely, only a few months into first semester, due to bullying. There were multiple degrees to this. Sure, I was viciously bullied by my peers, but that was nothing new. I’d been the least popular girl at school since 3rd grade. I was taller than everyone, fatter than most, and half the school believed my mom killed my dad (I’m not sure how that rumor started, but I probably made it up myself). Despite all of this, I really didn’t fucking care. When I remember it now, I don’t remember going home from school every day feeling sad, wishing I had friends, or ruminating on how disliked I was. I remember going home with a mission to computer.
All I cared about was computer.
So, at some point I just stopped going. My usual refusal to get ready to go to school became a full-on protest. I was not going to go to school. I was going to computer.
So, I did… for about two years, until my family had enough and sent me away to boarding school.
Today, I still love computer, but I have less trouble waking up in the morning. Probably because I don’t have to find a way out of school, but more likely because it’s on my terms.
Waking up early in the morning when you have nothing to do feels like rebellion, and who would I be if I didn’t oppose my own existence in every way I possibly can? I’m allowed to do whatever the fuck I want? I think not.
Anyway, the last couple weeks have been a roller coaster.
At some point I got surgery. Went euphoric over the concept of being healed, mixed with the fever-dreaminess of heavy opiates. Ran out of painkillers and thought I was dying. Wrote a poem about celibacy, published it to my Substack, had a threesome the next day. Showed up to the spinal surgeon, fully dicked down from said activities (lowkey I think he healed me), was prescribed another MRI. Seemingly jumped the gun, because now I feel fucking fantastic. Who needs an MRI? Started a new injectable medication, inflammation get fucked I’m healed bby. Wrote a new song. Bought a bunch of air purifiers when Chicago got smoked out by Canada. Made loooooose plans to go places and do exciting things, which I hope come true.
Considering packing up me and the dog, going full nomad, wasting a bunch of money, and playing cowgirl. Yeehaw.