School has been underway for me for a month today.  I can already say that I love my senior year.  It’s so easy!  As well, I only have four classes.  I sorta cheated to get it that way.  But that story’s not for this post.

I walk in through the main doors of the school, the ends of my hair dry, but the rest still damp from the shower.  According to my friends, I look weird like this, but it makes no difference.  I stride across the lobby past the office, go down an adjacent hallway, and make a left down a significantly smaller hallway within the first hallway, with three doors at the end.  I take the one on the left.

As I walk in I take a quick glance around the room, grab my blue folder if it’s on the front table, and head straight for the back of the room, to my desk.

First period for me is a class called Into to Family Consumer Sciences.  FCS.  It’s filled mostly with Freshmen, Sophmores Juniors and Seniors making up the minority.  It’s a class that every student must have a credit in to graduate, and due to both the classes I was taking and the scheduling system of the school, I’ve been unable to take it during any one of the previous three years.  So far, the class only began to feel regular to me–as in, it stopped feeling new–when we began doing group work on a project where we made our own towns, planning the apartments’ insides, what kind of families the town would accommodate, etc.  One girl in particular in the class– a “Super Senior”, as I call them (someone who’s on his/her fifth year in a school)–makes me want to kill her on a daily basis.  She’s apparently been in this same class before, which means she must be an awful failure, and is just generally horribly irritating.  Every time she opens her mouth, she spews failure and ignorance, and I just want something painful to inflict itself upon her.

The Freshman girl in front of me to the left looks back at me for a quick second.  I have no interest in her.  Freshmen are immature, and that fact is far too apparent in her.

I sit in class as we watch an outdated movie from the eighties, and try and answer questions, the actual answers to which are often going by too quickly in the video.  The outdatedness bothers me, as does the sniffling of the person directly to my left.  Lots of things bother me in first period.  In the horrible state-of-mind I’m set to after just having woken up, head possibly aching, every little thing gets my monologue screaming.  It goes away, or else I just don’t notice the things that bother me, but not until the period’s over.

I remember when we first got Bootsie.  I was at the birthday party of one of my friends at the time, back in like first grade I think.  On the ride home from the party I remember gaining the knowledge of us having a new kitty, named Bootsie.  The name had been given to her by her last owners, because of her four white paws.  I guess the name sounds strange at first, but hey, she was a cat, and I never had a problem with it.

Bootsie hated other cats.  She’d scowl at them.  When we got our all black kitten we named Chip, she would hold him down with her paw.  Bootsie was the cat of the house, I think.  The outside, like the yard and everything, was her territory.  She’d go out every day and patrol, and she’d do that a few times a day, I think.  She used to lay at the top of a slide we had on the swingset in the yard, and one time I saw her actually climbing up the ladder to get to it.  Straight up, paw over paw.  That was awesome.  She and Chip would hunt sometimes, too.  One time one of them brought a live bird into the house, I think.  I’m pretty sure that was either Chip or Bootsie.  The things were gifts.  Thanks, guys.

Bootsie was affectionate.  She used to really like me a lot.  She’d curl up with me every night.  She’d sleep in my bed, try to take my pillow, crawl underneath the sheets and then come up so that she was about to my chest before lying down.  We’d snuggle up.  I forget why that stopped.  I think that’s when I stopped letting cats into my room.

At one point earlier this year we saw blood in Bootsie’s pee.  Not pleasant.  Not too long after that Bootsie started getting hungry all the time.  Like, all the time.  Soon she was diagnosed with diabetes, and she had to take insulin.  She took the shots like it was nothing at all.  I think that was because she was so old.  She was like, 90 in cat years.  My Dad was the one who gave her the shots.  I don’t think I’d have been good at that.  And she lived.  She was old and had diabetes, but that was part of the age.

Even more recently, a few days ago in fact, she began throwing up a lot.  Like, vomit that reeked way more than it should have, imo.  My Dad took her to the vet today, where they said her kidneys were failing.  They put her to sleep.  I don’t wanna make other people feel sad or bad, or feel like they should feel bad, but I think Bootsie deserves remembering.  She fucking rocked.  Twelve years of awesomeness, and she outlived both our cat Chip and our dog Harley, after being born before both.  Right now, we still have Twilight, whom we got when we still had Chip, Flurry, whom we got after we had lost Chip, and Mooch, a gray shabby homeless cat that we feed.  Bootsie was the best of them.  She lived a great life for any housepet, I think, and I’m glad we could help with that.  She was ours.  We were hers.  Rest in peace, Bootsie.

It’s been about a week since school started.  Unlike previous years, my schedule this year has had me going into the office to see my guidance counselor several times to try and get my schedule changed around.  After some talking and box-lifting, I got rid of a guitar class to take a class with one of my best friends first period in the spring.  I’m also in-between getting rid of another class, in the place of which I have no idea what I’m getting.  Hopefully nothing, so I can go into the art room and do more there.  I love the freedom of AP Art.  It’s so supportive.

My friend Richie showed me a trick to get my locker to open without a combination.  You basically take a small roll of card stock or something and jam the lock on the inside of the door so that it closes and won’t open without the button, but doesn’t need the combo.  Too bad I don’t need my locker, save for a single history textbook.  Otherwise, all of my books–spiral notebooks, the three of them, as well as a half-inch three-ringed binder–can be carried around in my laptop bag.  I was nervous about using a laptop bag this year at first, but decided to go with it, since I can carry it to all my classes, as opposed to a traditional backpack, which would require that I frequent my locker between classes.

It looks like I’ll be able to keep a job this year.  Last year I seemed to be bogged down with schoolwork all the time.  This year, however, I don’t need math and science classes, and on top of that the other classes I’m taking aren’t gifted honors or anything like that, which would just be a pain in the ass.  As a result of all this, I’ve had no homework so far, aside from some assignments for Art and English that aren’t due for a bit, and I’ve just been overjoyed.  School is SO much fucking better when I don’t have to deal with shit all day after it’s over.  It’s so great I gotta swear to express it.

I’ve been working on comics in-between owning at my classes.  It began with some doodles of a character getting shot with an arrow and killed that I did on some school papers.  I thought, “I could get into trouble for this.”  You know, schools and other students frowning upon and thinking there’s something wrong with you for drawing out violence, respectively.  And that got me thinking of some comic strips to further that thought and continue off of it.  They’re not done-up very much right now–to save myself from tiring meticulousness–though I expect they will be at one point.  Right now they’re just stuff I’ve been doing in pencil and ball-point pen in my green Misc. notebook.  I’ve decided that doing this is a good idea, since I think the processes I’ve begun in making the comics will help me out later on if I learn them better.  I’m putting these classroom-done comics here.

I think that I might be doing a lot of school-related posting here.  It’s the most prominent thing happening to me, and school usually tends to have a fairly heavy effect on the goings-on of my life.  I mean, it changes up everything, and forces me into a social setting almost every day of my life.  The school year always changes me, especially when I was a Junior.  I really like who I became within that one year, and who I am now thanks to that.  Maybe some significant things will happen this year, too.

It’s been a month since I last posted anything.  Whoops.

Child you hurt your parents
When you flew away
Up beyond the atmosphere
Into stars that day
They’re sorry that they yelled at you
They wished that you would stay
Once you swept the window shade
When you flew away

Child you hurt your shuttle
In your crooked path
Past a wicked ball of flame
Skimming demon’s wrath
She taught you how to look at things
She taught you crooked math
Poisoned was the atmosphere
In your crooked path

Child you hurt your breathing
Sniffing evil foam
Drinking poisonous water
Sorry that you roam
But now you’re too used to the smoke
You cannot go back home
Man lost in the great vacuum
Starboy all alone

What I’ve been up to lately is shambling together a set of five art pieces that were assigned over the summer break.  I’ve put them off until two weeks ago or so.  Bad, I know, but I’m almost finished them.  I’m on the fourth right now, a landscape of an alien invasion scene that uses a complementary color scheme.  I went with blue and orange, in oil pastels.  I’m not sure doing all this is a good idea, but hey, I’m already a good ways into it.  The other things I’ve done are a self portrait that expresses something unusual about myself, some form of figure drawing of a person or group, and a still life that uses three different mediums.  I’ll make sure to try and get good photos of them all when they’re all done.

Oh, and I went to Gen Con mid-August.  I originally was going to make a post of it, but I now just have photos posted here.

I’m not sure if I should separate this non-poetry bit into a post of its own or not.  Oh well.

There is a new playground that was built beside a soccer field in a park around where Spiro lives.  It’s agreeably a deathtrap for young children, and I knew it ever since I first laid eyes on it, before it was finished.  The one they built outside of my old middle school is a deathtrap, too, which is actually what got me noticing this quality in the first place.  With its many cold, metal bars rising up from the earth and wood chips, forming attractive amusements and the promise of merriment to little ones who would so, so easily be broken by a wrong step or grab.   That’s how it is now outside of the middle school.  The one in the park has two short, maybe eight or ten feet walls that resemble rock-climbing walls.  Fun, perhaps.  Hell, they are fun, but provide the danger of a deadly trap nonetheless.  I can only imagine a small, poorly supervised child snapping his/her neck with the force of impact onto the wood chips, or catching a shoe in one of the handholds and breaking a leg.

Aside from the blatant risk of death or injury, the slides are just badly designed.  There’s one that starts off normally, then swerves to the right and continues again.  My friend pointed out it’s flaw, by getting stuck.  The slide implies that a smaller child should be riding it due to having shorter legs.  In fact, all of the slides do this.  But one of the options of getting to said slides happens to be a rock-climbing wall, BAD for children.  Plus, there’s that one slide that looks like a penis.  Yeah…

We’re still trying to convince Spiro that living in the park is a bad idea.

I am corresponding right now from a McDonald’s somewhere around central Pennsylvania, and lemme tell you, I no longer consider McDonald’s a Wi-Fi hotspot.  I don’t consider a place where I have to pay for Internet a hotspot at all.  But no, I’m not using McDonald’s fascist connection, which I can’t use without paying.  I’m using a free unsecured connection that is unrelated to McDonald’s but that I can still access from inside of McDonald’s.  I love that free Internet feeling.

I think I only have a few minutes here before we leave, which means no more correspondence until Saturday at least.  My regur

…

That was all that was, apparently, of a correspondence post I was trying to make last…Thursday.  I had written over a paragraph-and-a-half more before I hit “send”, whereupon I discovered that McDonald’s had dropped its hammer and shut me out from the free connection I had found.  Turns out the “att” network was part of McDonald’s somehow.  Lucky for me, I guess, that portion of the post was saved, thanks to beautiful, beautiful WordPress.

The reason for my correspondence, as I think I might have mentioned but am not sure and am not going to go back to check right now, was that I was in a special place, a magical place, without Internet.  The place is called Zook & Lyter’s.  I’ve been going there ever since I was born, every year, once a year.  I love it there.  Plenty of people, like my brother, may find it boring.  But I just love it up there.  It’s the most serene and beautiful place I’ve ever been, and there’s nothing big to it.  It’s not a tourist trap.  It’s just, there.  Seven cabins by the Juniata River.  A see-saw, sandbox, some swings, some monkey bars, all for the kiddies.  Two docks, canoe rentals, a nearby access area; it’s great for fishing, something else we used to do every year with my now late Poppop.  But I don’t recommend the sandbox.  It’s dirty in there, man.  Beautiful water, beautiful tree-covered mountains just beyond it, beautiful fields and landscapes in general.  White squirrels, though we didn’t see any this year.  We did see a skunk though.  And I drove!

I really love Zook & Lyter’s.  I’ll never get tired of it.  I got the raw inspiration that I expected I’d get when I was up there, but I couldn’t make anything of it.  It was too raw.  It came and went before the week was over.  Most of the time I played Super Nintendo games on the laptop.  Though, I did get a summer AP Art assignment started.  I just need to shade some stuff now.

There are Amish there, too.  Now, everytime I say that to someone, they think, “Oh yeah, Lancaster”.  NO.  It’s not Lancaster, damn it.  It’s about an hour or two WEST of Lancaster.  Yeah, undisturbed Amish.  People misunderstand the Amish.  They don’t like photos because it’s too vain to have a photo taken, not because it’ll steal their soul.  They can use electricity, as long as things are battery-operated.  They have a phone.  I mean, they do business with non-Amish.  They get rides in cars.  You don’t know Amish.

Or maybe you do.  I don’t know.  I don’t know you.

I sincerely apologize for not posting in over two weeks.  Really.  I just haven’t been in blog mode lately.  I’m sure it must seem like I’ve left teh Interwebs, but I’ve done no such thing.  Actually, it might seem like that again.  When I wake up today, I and my mom are leaving on our vacation, out towards central PA to a place that few people have heard of called Zook & Lyter’s.  I love it there.  My Dad and brother aren’t going; too hot & not enough time/too boring, respectively.

I’ll be there for a week, and there’s no Internet.  If we head to the McDonald’s one day for lunch then I’ll be sure to bring my laptop there and correspond.  This week will be very good for me.  I want to do stuff during it, like write.  In fact, determined to have something to post somewhere before I leave, I wrote this.

Oh, and what genre would you say this is?

The boy walked carefully around broken toys and piles of boxes as he made his way to the back of the basement. There, four large open crates were pushed against the wall, off to one side, the contents spilling over the tops onto the floor. The boy looked up at them through the airborne dust and flyaway cobwebs. He hadn’t needed to make a trip to the basement in months. He usually tried his best to avoid it. There was always darkness in the basement, dark corners where things could hide, shadows that made moving quickly amongst the rubble difficult.

The junk that had been stored in the basement was in complete dismay, busted into pieces and ripped to bits, spread about on the floor and tables and shelves. A depressing carnage of destroyed stuffed animals littered one particular area next to the boy. The head of a teddy bear stared up at him. It filled the boy with an intense surge of fear, and he suddenly became newly aware of the eerie stillness all around him. Dust covered everything and floated into the air like a fog. There was no ventilation in the basement, and the dust had become concentrated there like nothing the boy had ever known. It frequently made him cough and choke. He was determined not to when he first went down, but his efforts were in vain, and now he was sure that he possessed no stealth.

He continued on through the harsh cloud of dust and piles of debris to the crates in the corner. There spilling out of the large wooden boxes was an innumerable supply of magazines made for a Kalashnikov assault rifle. The boy looked down at the colossal store of ammunition only for a moment, quickly kneeling down and placing the three empty backpacks he had been carrying beside him on the carpet of dirt. He unzipped one of them and removed his own AK-47, one that had been of great use to the boy so far, and one that was currently stuck in its semi-automatic setting. He set it down thoughtfully next to him and poured the magazines into the bags, stuffing each one as full as he could, until he could barely zip them closed.

He then took up his firearm again and popped out the old magazine, which fell to the floor with a clack. The boy stopped and stared at the empty case. It had held his last cartridge. He remembered the horror that had come with losing his last defense, when he was forced to run instead of shoot. The horror he had felt began trickling through his body once more, but he shook it out. He grabbed the empty magazine, stood, turned, and hurled it far away into the basement. It whipped through the dust and disappeared out of sight, but made no sound afterward. The boy listened for when it would hit the floor, but the silence of the room remained intact. This made the boy feel uneasy.

The boy shivered. He turned back around to the vast hoard of magazines and picked one up off the dusty floor. It was absolutely the last one he could bring. He loaded it into the gun, then held the weapon at the ready for a few moments. He felt replenished, as if he had just restored an entire stock of food, and a lush bounty awaited him.

He kept the gun in his hand as he tried to pick up all three of the backpacks at once, an attempt that failed miserably. The backpacks weighed far more than he could lift. It was all he could do to drag them along towards the stairs on the opposite wall, no longer stepping carefully over the broken objects but rather walking headlong through them, inching the bags on behind him with his left hand, his right hand occupied by the Kalashnikov. The clamor he made was stifled in the dirty air, the silence imposing itself upon him still, except for the boy’s occasional loud choking.

Suddenly there was a noise. It came from around the staircase, on the opposite side of the room. The boy let go of the backpacks, and positioned his left hand in front of his right on the gun. He looked, but he couldn’t see through the air. The staircase itself was barely visible. Fear twinged in the boy. He shivered. A box fell off of a table to his left, causing a disturbing crash. The boy wheeled the gun around in that direction. Adrenaline coursed through his body. The pile of rubble on the floor burst and a shock of surprise ran through the boy, but he didn’t move. He had never had a direct encounter before. His finger wavered on the gun’s trigger. Slowly, up from the center of the scattered pile rose an inky black figure. It had no distinguishable features and it made no sound as it positioned itself atop the boxes, balanced as though it had no physical weight.

The boy didn’t waste any time. He lined up the sights and fired a shot at the creature. It fell back and dissipated into the air. He could hear more crashes by the stairs. There more of the shadowy, silhouetted monsters waited, and again the boy wasted no time. He pivoted ninety degrees back to face the stairs and took down two more. As the adrenaline raced through his veins and affected his body, he knew he had to use it. Stuck in that house, it was hellish trying to survive. Day in and day out, lurking though the house, living under fear of the encroaching evil presence. He had made his choice to survive in that house.

He took out another creature with a shot, wasting no bullets so far. Fiercely he whipped around to the backpacks and hoisted all three onto his shoulders with his left arm, sure to maintain use of the weapon with his right.

His choice was made to survive. He had to protect himself.

The boy began to walk toward the stairs, not even thinking about the objects in his path. More creatures rose up to block his progression.

This was what it felt like to fight instead of flee. The boy felt invincible, traipsing through the basement with enemies all around him. He felt strong, lifting the heavy backpacks, skilled picking off his foes with single shots. He kept on advancing, when the bags shifted on his shoulders, and one fell onto his right arm. With a groan, he heaved the bag back and took another shot at the creatures. Instead of hitting, the shot missed, and the creature lunged out at the boy. He dropped the bags and held the gun with both hands, taking the creature out, but provoking the others now, too. They all came out at him, ten of them, or more. He dove and rolled behind a table and rose behind a stack of boxes. But the creatures defied evasion, and one of them tore violently at his arm.

The boy screamed in pain. Blood gushed out just below his left shoulder. Thirsty for revenge the boy aimed the gun at the nearby thing and blew it away, unloading the rest of the rounds into its body, which evaporated mid-spray.

The boy stopped, and gazed at his gun. It had come unstuck, and the lever had been moved down to the “automatic” position. It had happened when he dived. The gun had caught the arm of a broken action figure, a soldier. The action figure had been destroyed by the roll, but the gun had merely been reset.

The boy smirked and ejected the magazine, then reached for another before realizing that the bag was some fifteen feet in front of him, behind a wall of darkness. A wall of darkness that was steadily approaching him.

In a panic, the boy fled, sprinting at the door. Fear once again flooded through him. When he reached the foot of the stairs, he gaped up in horror. The door at the top, which the boy had left ajar, was instead not even any longer a door. The passage was covered with jet blackness, and the boy didn’t bet that it was a good idea to go near it. With no ventilation, no other ways out of the basement, the boy turned and peered at the wall of shadows, which had shifted direction and was now approaching him at his new location. His option of flight was cut off. He had to try and take the evil darkness, the pitch-black, shapeless, weightless forms, which never died, but only disappeared like ghosts. These things that could be overcome, but that never went away.

Oh yeahs, I’ve been doing it again.

http://floipoid.tumblr.com

Doing a sketch every day, that is.  More on top of it than I was before.

And there is a small brown insect of some kind living in my desk.  I have named him Lucky.

This summer vacation feels way busier than I thought it would.  Within the first two weeks, I’ve been out of the house for twenty-four straight hours on two separate occasions, and out for about twelve hours on two or three other separate occasions.  I had D&D the Tuesday before last and the Saturday after that, saw Spiro the Friday before last and the Thursday after that, went to the graduation parties of two friends, and stayed over some friends houses on other times.  It’s very confusing, and I’m not even going to bother going back and checking to see if I could even have done all of that. … Okay, yeah, I can’t figure it out; like I said it’s confusing.

I don’t remember really just when the times were that I went to do stuff with my friends, staying overnight at Richie’s house, usually.  We sort of just hang out, watch movies on Richie’s computer, play video games.  By we I mean Paul, Richie, Rob and I.  Sometimes not Rob.  We stay up past midnight, until it’s light outside.  Last night, a twelve-hour excursion, we went out biking at 4 in the morning to go and get food, wary of being seen by police and getting in trouble for being out after curfew.  Actually, we might have been safe; none of us know at what time curfew ends.  If we hadn’t gone out to get food, I wouldn’t have been able to stay awake that whole night, sleeping for about an hour and a half on Richie’s floor (under a blanket and with a pillow, though) at around 11 AM.  After that amount of sleep I was dirt tired going to see Paul, who had to go back to his house early morning.  I biked home to take a shower and finally rest, though not go to sleep.

I’ve seen an overwhelming amount of movies during these past two weeks, now that I think about it.  Including all mediums in which a movie can be viewed, I’ve seen The Incredible Hulk, most of Fight Club (surprisingly deep and good), Star Wars IV V and VI, House of 1000 Corpses, Devil’s Rejects, part of I am Legend, Kung Fu Panda, The Incredible Hulk (again), part of Disturbia, Diary of the Dead, and Be Kind Rewind.  So I’ve seen ten movies for the first time (including Fight Club in that), in less than fourteen days.  Spiro was determined to have me watch the original Star Wars Trilogy, and I was willing, so we made a marathon of that.

But I need to get away from all of this pretty soon.  I need to clean up my room, then I can start doing work for my AP Art class, and I want to start working at the cardshop too.  I won’t be able to just hang around with my friends for days at a time.  I also want to finally get my driver’s license.

But nonetheless, we’re going to see Hancock right when it comes out.  That’s gonna be awesome.

Part One

Whoa am I up late.

Gregory’s next period was lunch. He went down to the cafeteria and took to a circular table where he sat down alone and buried his head in his arms. He could only remember the shame, the embarrassment. He was sure that he hadn’t been saying anything out loud about Tiffany, yet everyone laughed at him. They laughed at him. Like they knew. How could they know? Greg shot up straight in his chair. What if they could hear me? A girl at a nearby table turned her head to look at him and he glared back at her. She curled her lip and turned back to her friends. This possibility shocked him. It can’t be true he thought. No, that’s not right. I’m just being paranoid. He lost his glare, but kept his eyes fixed on the girl at the table near him. A tall, skinny, busty blonde slipped into a yellow t-shirt and cotton shorts that read “CHEER” across the rear. He stared at her, sure that no one could see him due to his position behind a column. He began to imagine sitting before her, running his hands down her sides; she leaning over him playfully, a mischievous smile on her face, placing a hand on his chest as she advanced closer, placing the other hand on his shoulder as she came closer still. Their faces nearing, her nose grazing his as she moved, and she kissing him lustfully for a few long moments. Then slipping in the tongue.

Greg snapped out of his thoughts. The girl was turned in her seat and gaping at him. By her mouth, she was startled and horrified; by her eyes, she was startled and confused. Greg looked down for a few moments, then looked back up at her. She was staring at the wall near the table now, trying to comprehend. She had been merely sitting and chatting with her friends when all of a sudden a vivid, unprovoked image popped into her head. She saw flashes of herself leaning over someone, getting closer and closer, then finally kissing that weird kid who had been talking out loud to himself moments before. The thought had seemed so unfamiliar that she had turned and gaped at the boy, yet since she had known that it was a thought that had formed in her own mind, her own thought, her eyes had acquired an appropriate look of bewilderment. She was simply aghast that such a thought could be hers, that it would ever have occurred. Looking at the boy again, he wasn’t too bad looking, but nothing to have sexual fantasies over.

The girl’s friend sitting opposite the girl at the table spoke up. “Kayla, is something wrong?”

“I don’t know…do you know that kid? The one who was talking to himself?”

“What kid?”

“Back there.” She pointed. “Just now, he was talking to himself. Didn’t you hear?”

“No, I didn’t hear him.”

She turned to the friend at her right. “Did you?”

All the friends she asked at her table agreed: none of them had heard him, only a few of them had seen him before, and one thought that he was cute.

“I can’t believe I’m the only one that heard him.” She looked down at her lunch tray. “It was so weird. I mean I—I like, started thinking about him all of a sudden. Out of nowhere. I don’t know what came over me.”

The event confused the girls for some time and made Gregory the topic of their discussion for the duration of the period. Gregory, aware that they were now talking about him and making furtive yet obvious glances in his direction, tried to ignore them. He picked up his sandwich and took a bite, then went back to his thinking. I wonder if she knows I thought that. That was a really big coincidence, otherwise. No, it can’t be, I’m just crazy. I’m just paranoid, that’s all. I’m just paranoid. Just paranoid. I’m just paranoid. Paranoid. That’s all. He repeated the words over again in his head. He felt safe thinking them. Like no one could hear him. That’s crazy. No one can hear me. I’m just crazy. Later in the day, he began to actually feel as though people could hear his thoughts, as though becoming aware of it. To combat the feeling, he did all he could not to think anything personal, or insulting, or sexual. His mind became a torrent of repeated words, over and over again, his tongue moving inside his mouth like he was saying them. He screamed things in his head, just to get the feeling to stop, to stop thoughts before they happened, to drown thoughts out. The only time he felt at peace was when he was alone.

Over the coming weeks, he discovered that in trying his best not to think anything insulting or sexual, powerful thoughts arose in his head to the contrary, as if just to be contrary. Every time he passed a girl, he began screaming safe thoughts in his head. For some reason, when he felt as though his thoughts were safe, people didn’t seem to hear them, but when he wasn’t paying attention, his head became a stereo to all. He had to keep on his guard, be aware of his thoughts all the time. Keep mentally screaming at himself to stop thinking bad thoughts. It was difficult, and every day became a trial. He sometimes felt that it was simply too much for him to handle.

Cool, I learned how to quote.