The Patron Saint of Losers

    As I look out across the wide, sweeping valley that is the cafeteria, I wonder. What kind of animal is man, that in his adolescent year he takes some type of joy and fulfillment from the pain of others? In other words, what kind of sick fucks am I surrounded by? I can see Ramone and his gang of punk idiots giving pink bellies to each other and the jocks are on the opposite side doing the exact same thing. And to think, these guys hate each other.

    All the cliques surround their respective lunch tables, and I can’t help but to look at them like they’re animals. Stupid, dumb animals. And right now I’m just playing a game with them, and the name of that game is: attack when their backs are turned. Some people may think this is cowardly, but I figure there are only two kinds of people in high school: Those with the heart of the mighty and proud lion and those of us who like living. Those with honor and nobility and people who are sane.

    ’m in one of the dark, scary parts of the cafeteria. Ya know, the kind Goth kids like to hang out in, except I’m not wearing gay, black lipstick. I can feel the corners of the gun metal grey switch biting into my skin, but it doesn’t bother me. Because this little grey switch is going to give me my ultimate satisfaction, if only Brittany would hurry up and sit at her damn table. The stupid girl probably in the bathroom sexing it up with her boy toy. I cannot for the life of me understand the attraction of jocks. The entire sports departments collective I.Q is, like, a two digit number.

    A few more minutes of waiting and my patience wears thin. I flip the switch. The tiles directly above the “cool kid’s table” give out, and an odd mixture of compost, rotten meat, and road kill fall onto the table(It’s amazing what kind of stuff you can find if you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty). For a moment I’m almost guilty, but it passes through my system like “Crave Box” from White Castle pass through someone’s intestine.

    As I make my way from the scene of the crime, my steps are discreet and my path to the library is well laid out. It’s a shame that the security guards are so predictable. I walk into the sanctum of books through the back entrance and come out with a novel or two, as if I had been in the back searching for books the entire time, which isn’t an odd site. And when the Po-po come into the library looking for someone to pin the crime on I’m scott-free and I feel good on my way Pre-Cal.

    I sit in the back of that class, too. Not because I want to be a loner, but no one wants to sit next to the school shooting waiting to happen. I suppose if I looked a bit happier, smiled a bit more, and didn’t insult everyone who so much as glanced at me, more people be willing to hang out with me. I’ll probably get around to making myself more approachable around the same time I start to give a fuck. 

    While I’m contemplating my own social ineptitude, the hour hand on the clock hits 3 and I realize there’s five minutes of class is left and they still haven’t figured out number 12 on the worksheet. The worksheet I finish an hour ago. The teacher is looks at me nervously, and I’m wondering. I’m wondering why she doesn’t just say it,

    “Alright class. I realize that in this stone monument to the failure of the public school system, there is not one of you who will even guess, so I’ll turn to the only half intelligent person in this class.”

      But before I can utter a word, a hand raises in the air. It’s Kimberly “Little Miss Perfect” Ann Stevens. Apparently, she’s pretty, smart, funny, good with kids, can do your taxes, omnipotent, and I’m sure if I’ve forgotten anything all I need to do is ask any random person in the hall and they’d be more than happy to fill up my list.

    “Um…x equals three.” She manages to say, and I cock an eyebrow. By George, I think she’s got it. She turns her head over to me and smiles and I sneer. It’s a game we play, her and I. I pretend that we’re not friends and she pretends that we are.