An Adam Davenport Corruption

I dedicate this worthless piece of crap to the following people in order of importance:

Myself, for thanking fundamentally the same people every time and thus eliminating the need to be creative

All Taco Bell employees, bringers of the divine ambrosia

All fanatic Taco Bell customers, my brethren, my family

Jason Kolkey, for three years of bullshit rhetoric and the occasional song and meal

Kati Rowe, who is just a name and not a character (yet)

Greg Thomas, for not yelling when I stole his writing style (I gave it back)

Jesus, with whom all things are cherry-flavored

Laura, my boss, for ten dollars an hour and all-I-can-eat ice cream out of the department freezer (some writers aren�t lucky enough to be talented and need an actual job- enter, the poster child)

Winona Ryder, for showing those Saks 5th Avenue bastards that they can�t tell us what to do

Everyone in my English classes, for making me look so damned brilliant

Everyone in my Algebra class, for paying attention and asking lots of questions so I don�t have to

L. Ron Hubbard, for showing me the true way to salvation

Whoever invented bendy straws

Everyone involved in the production of �Bill and Ted�s Excellent Adventure�

All the rest of you, because without your dedication I never would have yadda yadda yadda.

The following is a work of bullshit. The characters used resemble slightly those I have encountered in real life. Do not use this as a rubric to define my company or myself, as the only worse judge of character than you is I.

Forward

Where I Justify Myself

A lady named Kati and I had a conversation today, where we were talking about writing and character development. We were discussing how it was easier to use people we know as characters in lieu of a well-developed fictional one. Kati made a point of saying that all the characters she created ended up being just like her. I went further, stating that even though I�m using people I know I turn them into myself. This �work� is a great example of this. Both Jason and Adam in this story are exactly like me. Or, at least, how I see myself. Ce�st la vie. You�ll live.

This is a work of obvious fiction, detailing what would happen were Kolkey and I to remain friends after high school. I plan on making absolutely sure that this does not happen.

It is as good a point as any here to make a sincere dedication, as I have wasted more than enough time already. This is dedicated, sincerely, to those of you that I am leaving far, far behind in my quest to become the ultimate form of myself. You�ve annoyed me, wasted my time, and now I take my leave of you. Kiss my fucking ass, you bastards. I hope you rot in this town for the rest of your pathetic lives.

Love Always,

The Late J.C., Mr. X on holidays

Prologue

One Useless Story to Precede Another

The desert winds pressed upon the boy�s back, pulling at the tattered remains of his robes. His sandals had long since been left behind, having been worn through, and the night-shrouded sand spilled over his feet with each step. He no longer noticed the temperature. It had in fact been only a month and a half that he had walked this desolate waste, but the boy felt that he had aged millennia. He was hungry and thirsty beyond anything he had known in civilization, but somehow he kept pushing himself on toward some unknown end. As the moon rose high above him, reaching the upper periphery of his vision, he set himself down in the sand. He lay on his back, staring at the stars and full moon. He thought back to his mother and father, his brothers and sister, his friends, and slowly drifted into dreams of home.

The morning came quickly for the boy. He gathered himself, brushing the sand from his hands and face, and finally carried on. As he turned toward the rising sun, the boy was met with a most welcome sight. An elderly man, beard grown long and tangled, sat cross-legged in the sand. Anxious for contact with anyone, the boy quickly approached the old man. The man smiled at the boy, gesturing at the ground next to him.

�Hello, boy,� the man said with a silken voice, oozing with insincerity. �It�s a wonderful morning, is it not?�

�Honestly, master, every morning seems to be the same here,� the boy said as he sat beside the old man. �Who are you?�

The elderly man�s smile lengthened. �Good,� he practically hissed, �Never stop questioning, my boy, never. I am� well, that is to say I was a coadjutor of your father�s. Long, long ago. My, but times change.� The man stretched his arms over his head, cracking his knuckles.

�What are you doing out here?� the boy asked.

�Sitting, obviously,� the old man said. �Waiting, to be more precise. And don�t ask me for what. You�ve already asked me two questions you couldn�t answer if I asked them to you.�

The boy fidgeted. �Well, that�s half true. I�m really not sure what I�m doing here. But I know who I am. I�m��

�I know you know who you think you are, child, but how do you know what you think you know is what you will know when you come out of this whole mess?� There was a moment of silence as the man scratched his head. �Anyway, don�t worry about it. What�s the worst that could happen? Wait, no, that�s not what I want you to answer. Forget I asked. I�ve a question for you, boy. I am in a place. Those who swim the Diyala never see it. Those who swim the Euphrates never see it. But those who float down the Tigris are welcomed with open arms into the gates of salvation, where the blessed sing and the Lord bows in honor to you. Where am I?�

The boy sat for a moment, deep in thought. �Sir,� he finally said, �I know nothing of what you speak, but your heresy makes me ill.�

�Never mind, son, never mind. Give it some time to sink in. I�ll be seeing you, boy. Good morning to you.� The man drew himself up and walked westward. As soon as the boy was out of earshot, he muttered, �King of Kings my eye. That boy�s as good as crucified.�

What is at the beginning of eternity, the end of time, the beginning of every end, and the end of every place?

The letter E.

1

Useless Character Development

My name is Jason Kolkey. I�m twenty-six years old as of yesterday. In actuality, none of the previous is true. My real name is on the first page of this story and I�m much better looking than the real Jason Kolkey is. And I�m younger than the Jason Kolkey described in this narrative. Yeah, that about covers it. There are many more subtle nuances, almost inconspicuous, that would allow one to discern Mr. Kolkey and myself (with whom I will soon be involved in a lawsuit I�m sure) but you�ll see this soon enough.

Anyway, my name is Jason Kolkey, and yesterday I turned twenty-six. My birthday party consisted of me and my only real friend sitting in my apartment eating tacos and drinking Jewel-brand cola. Adam, whom swore to me that we�d never see each other after high school, is a lying son-of-a-bitch who sleeps here more than he does at his own apartment. Not that I blame him- his place smells like perfume and vomit. He will not tell me why. I honestly don�t care to know, thank you very much. If what goes on in that apartment bears any resemblance to what he looks like when he�s drunk I�d rather be in Bangladesh doing public service announcements for the whining little kids without shoes or food or plasma screen TVs than sleep in that rat hole. If I had a job at the moment, however, I�m sure it would suck more than helping little Bangladeshi kids buy their daily opium fix. Why? I�ve been arrested twelve times, all for loitering or disturbing the peace. Basically I get caught with those elastic laws you get arrested for pissing in an alley behind Hooters with. I was expelled from U of I last year for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a victim of circumstances beyond my control. And if you can believe that, I suggest you contact someone from the Church of Scientology. Have your credit card ready.

To conclude, I�m an unemployed ex-student living off sporadic checks from my brother, Satan�s credit card, and the occasional shit hourly job. I have about five hundred dollars in unpaid parking tickets, my only friend is a completely fanatic narcissist bearing a remarkable resemblance to Jesus, and I�ll be dead in about two years.

Fuck it. Life is good.

2

Plot Almost Emerges, and More Useless Character Development

Judging by the VCR clock, which reads 2:54, I am able to calculate that it is way too early for me to be caring what the clock says, or why I�m laying on the couch watching �I Love Lucy,� or why I am interested in whether or not the asshole powers-that-be will ever take the damn thing out of syndication. I can only stand so much of this woman- it�s no wonder she committed suicide. Don�t let the government fool you- it�s obviously the truth. I�m kidding, of course. I�m not crazy. I know there�s no such thing as the government.

As I am indeed the sharpest crayon in the box, I decide that perhaps a walk will convince my body, my temple, to stop these accursed cognitive processes for about eleven hours. A walk, by the bye, means I walk as far as I have to in order to get in the car. As I sit up and kick my legs out, I hit the oddly odorless pile of skin (and the occasional bone) that is Adam.

Adam is an idiot, as far as I�m concerned. The rest of the world sees him as this stuck-up, creepy, evil genius of some kind, but it�s hard to keep that reputation when you�ve gone five beers into the night and begin stripping to �It�s Raining Men� at Hooters in front of a bunch of rednecks and whores. He was expelled from college, too. Only while I was a pseudo-innocent victim of circumstance, he blew up the basketball hoops during a pep rally. Three cheerleaders had to have surgery to remove the glass from various extremities, thoroughly emptying Adam�s bank account. He was expelled, but not arrested or even threatened with arrest. Don�t ask me how he does it, but he�s never been arrested. He doesn�t even have any parking tickets, and most of the time he parks on someone�s front lawn. He�s broke, but he�s the luckiest fucking man alive. And an idiot. The envy is almost palpable.

Anyway, I kick him. He moans. As he is already awake, and his car is about three parking spaces closer than mine, I kick him again. Many, many times. Usually, if it isn�t a heavy taco night, it would take about three kicks to wake him up. Tonight it takes about three solid minutes of kicking (mostly in the chest but on occasion I get creative) before he opens his eyes and calls me a Republican. We banter back and forth for about thirty seconds, and he finally stands up. He is fully clothed and wearing a somehow unwrinkled overcoat. How he does it, again, I don�t want to know. Asking him would only provoke another one of his many stories, and they all suck. If you�ve ever read anything Davenport�s written, you�d realize that Jerry Springer has better writers. He stands up, as I�ve said, and gropes in the quasi-darkness for his keys. He reminds me that he probably only has enough change in his ashtray for one cheeseburger, if that, and I grab my credit card from the table. This is the bane of my existence, this credit card. I can�t explain it, but somehow just the knowledge of the incredible debt accumulated on the damn thing makes the thing seem more evil than any episode of Friends, and don�t tell me that you can�t see the Satan in Chandler�s eyes. Anyway, we leave, and I close the door behind us. I don�t bother to lock it. If anyone stole anything, it would be doing me a favor.

3

Impotent Plot Finally Begins, Then Goes Limp

It�s cold outside. We can both see the snow and the wind blowing through the trees. It�s dark out, and the roads are obviously slick white slabs of death. All the better, as we have no idea where we are going or why. Driving in Davenport�s �95 Oldsmobile Cutlass is never a joy, but at least it�s clean and usually not on empty. He treats the thing like the fucking Chariot of the Sun. Yes, he is an idiot, but I have long since forgiven him.

We are listening to 96.1, Triton�s one classic rock station. The jockeys piss the hell out of me, but occasionally they play some Zeppelin song or another. I�m almost certain Adam knows where he�s going about as well as I know where he�s going, which is to say not at all. The city roads have turned rural. All I see are trees and snow. We drive on in silence, listening to �Back in Black.� It�s almost overpowered by static.

�Davenport,� I say, �Where are we going?�

Adam looks at me for a moment, and looks back at the road. �Is this one of those stupid �What have I done with my life?� questions? Because if you dragged me out of my nice warm seven by three rectangle of carpet for some soul-searching, I swear I�ll piss on your couch.�

�No. Just tonight. This morning. Whatever. Where are you driving to?� I scratch at my stubble.

�I don�t know. What do you care? We�ll end up back at your place watching network TV eventually.�

I recall something. �Hey. You know what day it is?�

Adam, oblivious to the passage of time, gives me a date three days earlier than today�s.

�No. Remember? Four years ago today��

�Korba died.� Adam has this annoying ability to finish my thoughts.

�Yeah.� I scratch at my stubble again. I really need to shave. �He got hit by the bus we were on.�

�Mmmhmmmm. What movie were we going to see?�

�Some shit David Arquette flick. �Zero Pilot� or something. Anyway, yeah. He got carried along on the front of the bus for about a mile and flew off into the windshield of someone�s Baretta.�

�Someone I knew once owned a Baretta.� Adam, of course, seemingly being able to recall only the occasional obscure symbol from his past, defines his reality with a string of someones, somewheres, and somethings. �Anyway, I�m being decisive. We�re going to Dominicks, where we will park the car, go inside, and eat as much food as we can before we get caught.�

�You mean,� I say, once more scratching at my apparently engaging stubble, �when I get caught and you walk away laughing your ass off.�

Adam laughs. It�s hard to decide a lot of the time whether he�s really laughing or just faking it.

�You know,� I remark, �this is not how I imagined I�d be wasting my life. Everything seems so��

�Useless?�

�Sure. Useless. What�s the point?�

Adam, half-serious, turns off the radio. �You�ve never been laid. That doesn�t mean you stop trying. Wait for it. Something will happen.�

�Yeah.�

�Or the world will end.�

�Optimist.�

Turning on the radio, I return my attention to the passing landscape and my stubble. The snow is letting up, and I can see the moon occasionally through the clouds. �Wild Horses� plays softly.

�Adam?�

�Mmm.�

�You know damn well I�ve been laid twice as much as you have.�

�I�ll make you a fucking plaque.�

4

Supporting Character Introduced, Viagra Kicks In for Plot

My astute observation follows. I fell asleep. I know this, as when I wake up the light hits my eyes like a fire-ant enema. Neil Diamond does his thing quietly in the background. Either Adam hadn�t stopped, or he had and he didn�t wake me. You could not overestimate my apathy. Nevertheless, I ask him anyway. He gestures with a lit cigarette at my crotch and I see a box of Slim Jims laying on my lap, open and half-empty.

�Is that all I am to you? A shelving unit for your meat?�

�Don�t flatter yourself. It was on the dash, but it fell on your lap. I don�t want to touch it anymore.�

Silence. I stretch my arms and recline my seat. It won�t go down all the way, and when I try harder I feel movement.

�Adam?� I am afraid to look.

�Mmm.�

�Why is it that the space where my reclining seat should be is filled with something soft that moves?�

�Look.�

�I am afraid to look.�

�Look anyway.�

I look, obviously. The object that blocked my headrest was a pair of jeans-encased legs. Amazingly enough, women�s legs. She was stretched out, reading a book.

�Who are you?� I inquire.

She looks at me. �A girl you don�t know.�

And master of the fucking obvious. �What�s your name?�

She smiles. �Adam, you didn�t tell me your friend was so��

�Repulsive?� Adam�s a funny guy.

�Malodorous.� Adam has funny friends.

�Ha fucking ha fucking ha. Who is this, Davenport?�

�This is Amy. Amy works, rather worked, at Dominicks. She�s going to Canada.�

�Really. So?�

�We, too, are going to Canada.�

The credit card in my pocket utters something in backwards Latin. �Okay. Allow me to ask a question?�

�I�ll allow you to ask two.�

�It�s a one letter question.�

�Okay.�

�Why?�

Adam turns off the radio. I don�t like it when he does that.

�I was in Dominicks last night stealing Slim Jims and Shasta. They were re-running this afternoon�s news program. For the 3:30 spot.�

I don�t like this at all. Who cares about the news, unless�

�They pulled your birthday, Kolkey. You�re being drafted.�

This is a joke.

�This is a joke,� I say.

Amy, the Dominicks defector, chimes in helpfully. �No, it isn�t.�

I summon all my eloquence. �Fuck you.�

�Kolkey, this is not a fucking joke. You have been drafted.� He�s accenting every word as he says this. �They will come looking for you. They will put you in jail. If this were a fucking joke, I would not be driving right now. I would be on your floor asleep. I am tired, hungry, and low on gas. Keep in mind that it wasn�t June 13th they pulled. I�m not doing this for me.�

�Why is she here?� I ask.

She answers, �I live with a guy who beats the shit out of me. If he finds out I lost my job, I don�t know what will happen. Adam is being Jesus for both of us. If you don�t stop bitching, I will��

I become angry. �You�ll what? Kick me out of the car? Like you said, I�m the one who�s in the shit. I�m also the one with the fucking money, unless you brought something, which I doubt.�

�Well, no��

�So where does it say in the fucking New Testament that Jesus asks his people for a few shekels to buy a new camel? Jesus isn�t paying for his own gas. Jesus��

�Jesus,� Adam interjects, �has never failed to pay you back. Jesus is doing you a huge fucking favor. If Jesus needs to use your credit card once or twice in exchange for the assurance that any sex you have in the next couple of years will probably be consensual then I�d cut Jesus a little bit of fucking slack.�

Silence.

�I�m Jewish.�

�Make that two plaques.�

5

Situation Explained. Badly.

Right now, as you read this, I expect you�re having problems with George W. Bush and his itchy trigger finger. I will tell you right now, this Homeland Security Act has blown up in our faces. Of course, your parents are the dickheads who elected this crack addict into office, so you have no one to blame but them.

Anyway, the intelligent people were right. The �War on Terrorism� has expanded into a �War on Freedom,� as our esteemed triumvirate calls it. Inside and outside the borders of the United States your operatives are gathering information. Belligerently. The reason isn�t important, and isn�t known. All we do know is that people are sent overseas and they die.

The drafting process was enacted three months ago. Draft, though they say it is decided by circumstance, is by religion. If you�re a Christian, you have it fucking made. Atheism is frowned upon in the new moral United States of bemusement. Davenport and I both are atheists.

Sucks, huh?

6

Continuity Lapse, As Two Days Don�t Matter

��and the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn. Come on in, she said, I�ll give �ya shelter from the storm.� So sings the radio, and the estate of Bob Dylan gets slightly richer.

Two days have passed. Adam has stopped for gas once, and needs to do so again. Amy and I have eaten twice. Adam hasn�t eaten anything yet. We bullshit on occasion, and I�ve gotten to know Amy quite a bit. Mostly, though, I just look out the window. The closer we get to the border the more snow I see on the ground. We haven�t stopped yet, sleeping in the car and alternating drivers when one of us feels like passing out. Driving at night in the snow is not fun, but the snow blowing through the bare branches plucks at my heart strings. As I�ve said, we�ve been sleeping in the car. Tonight is the first night we�ll be stopping at a hotel. Tomorrow, after two hours, we�ll be at the border. But right now, I pull into the parking lot of a Holiday Inn. Adam tells me an old friend of his works and lives here. I am less than hopeful.

�Adam. Amy.� I park, turn off the car, and engage the parking brake. �Wake up. We�re here.�

They do, and we brave the frigid parking lot to get to the lobby. As we enter, a look of recognition is earned from the girl behind the counter. Adam, tired and groggy, does not notice. The girl walks to him and hugs him. Then, she hugs me. I do not know this girl, even after she introduces herself as Kati. Further, I do not remember an April, with whom she was once friends, nor do I remember a Morgan. Adam, however, takes only a moment and regresses his memory nine years.

Kati smiles at me. �Knowing Adam, none of you have stopped driving long enough to change your clothes.�

�Are you kidding?� I reply, �He didn�t even tell me we weren�t going back home. I have a TV and a lava lamp I left behind.�

�Oh boo fucking hoo.� Adam retorts.

�I loved that lava lamp.� I really am close to crying. I miss my lava lamp.

�Tell you what,� Kati begins, �you can have your scavenge of the Lost and Found bin while I wash your clothes. We�re actually booked up, but I do have a single open until tomorrow afternoon, and you,� she nods to Amy �can sleep in my room.�

�You really don�t have to do this.� Adam is a nice guy.

�No, I don�t, but it�s something I�d like to do. I don�t have many friends left up here.�

Adam smiles. �Cool. Do you have a pool?�

7

Where Impossible Events Occur

Welcome to the pool scene, everyone. The time is one thirty in the AM. You really don�t know you�re far from home until you�re swimming fully clothed in a heated pool with a glass ceiling under a full moon. It�s actually the most fun I�ve had in a long time. We play games I haven�t played in years. I forget about everything for a moment, the war, Canada, everything, and float on my back, staring at the moon and the stars. Then I think about Katie, not Adam�s Kati but a completely different one. My Katie.

I float towards Adam�s Kati, who sits on the side of the pool. Her feet are in the water, probably the driest part on her. She, unlike I, has a swimsuit.

She stretches her arms up over her head. �Nice night, huh?�

�Absolutely beautiful. It makes me think.�

�Yeah? About what?�

�Previous indiscretions.�

�Who?�

I sigh. �Katie. Not you. A completely different Katie. I would go to the end of existence for her, and I did. Got kicked out of college for it.�

�How?�

�Circumstances beyond my control. Anyway, she�s married now.�

�Nights like this, I think about people, too. It�s a curse that our memories are so tied around the people we know, especially since we meet so many assholes.�

I smile.

Adam, looking absolutely ridiculous, walks up to Kati and I. �Would it be possible to redefine room designations?�

Kati cocks an eyebrow. �Er, sure, I guess.�

�Cool.� Adam pulls Amy out of the hot tub, smiling at her and telling her something I can�t hear. She smiles back with a look I�ve never imagined anyone giving Adam, and they walk out, both soaked and ridiculous.

�I call the couch,� I say.

�Probably better your way than theirs, no offense.�

�Much taken, thanks.�

�No problem.�

8

A Futile Exercise in Plot Development

I am glad this morning that I had changed into dry clothes before I fell asleep. Kati still is- never mind. She can stay that way. It�s seven thirty.

I make my way to Adam�s, and apparently Amy�s, room. Fearfully, I open the door. Adam is in bed, asleep, alone. There is no trace of the woman who would be queen, but I could care less. I wake him up.

�Hunnnnnnhh?� Adam is at his most eloquent in the morning.

�Wake up, sunshine. Must leave.�

�Where�s Amy?�

�Who cares?�

He shoots me a look. He flops off the bed and trips to the window. He stares out at the lot for a moment, and looks at me. Emotionless, he asks me, �Did you move the car?�

I tell him I did not.

He looks around for his glasses, finds them, and looks again.

�It�s gone, you know.�

�What?� I run to the window.

�Yes. Tire tracks. And footprints.�

�How?�

�My keys.� Adam walks to the chair where his jacket lies. �Are gone.�

�Amy?�

�Mmm.�

�Sorry.�

�Your loss, buddy. I�m the one who�s sorry.�

�You couldn�t have known.�

�Yeah, I could have.�

�Yeah, you�re right.�

�Three plaques.�

We sit on the bed.

�What now?� I ask.

�We ask Kati for a ride to Canada.�

I yawn. �You think she�ll say yes?�

�Yeah, I do.�

How can I refuse a sure thing like that?

9

One Less Useless Character

Kati did say yes, especially after Adam filled her in. I wonder for the first time why Adam is doing all this for me. I don�t think I�ll ask him.

We walk out to Kati�s car, a shit Civic colored red in several spots by rust. There is no radio. Kati, though Adam protests, drives. She and Adam banter back and forth as I lay stretched out across the backseat. The car smells of marijuana and perfume, not unpleasantly so. She and Adam have amazingly soft voices, and I am lulled into a comfortable half-sleep. I feel safe here, as though even without a radio the world could never touch me. Warm is accurate, but does not do it justice. I�m in love with comfort.

It�s eleven thirty by the time we make it to the border. Adam alerts me and I sit up. We pull up to the booth and stop for inspection. A man, a large man in a stained white sweatshirt and clich� Fargo hat approaches. He asks Kati to roll down her window. He asks her for her driver�s license. She asks him why.

He answers, heavily accented. �New U.S Border Policy. Need to make sure you aren�t dodgers, ya know.�

I can�t breathe. Adam and I had overlooked this part. We had both heard of the change in legislation, but we were both too damn stupid to remember. Everything comes to a crashing halt because of an asinine oversight on our part. I realize I�m going to die, and probably deserve it.

The large man walks around the car, to Adam�s door. As he leans over to the window and prompts Adam to roll it down, Adam slams the car door into the large man�s nose. Adam, screaming for Kati to drive, runs across the road. The large man runs after him, and Kati pulls a U-turn. I turn around to see the man pull a gun from his holster, the gun fire, and Adam falling to the pavement in a heap. I should be screaming, but I�m speechless. Why the hell did he do that? I don�t understand a damn thing.

Epilogue

Where We End A Useless Parable

�So Adam�s the one who was drafted.� I should have known. Probably did at some point.

�Yeah,� Kati said from across the table. She had a bagel. I wasn�t eating. �He called me from that Dominicks and told me everything.�

�But why take me with him?�

�You�re all he had. He was alone, and he looked up to you.�

�Chyeah. Then why not ask me if I would come? Why kidnap me?�

�You might have said no.�

Silence.

�Plus,� she continues, �he tired of seeing you miserable. He missed the old Jason, the happy one.�

�There was never a happy one.�

�You know what I mean. I saw you in the pool, playing with us.�

She has me there.

�Yeah. I admit, there were some pretty damn good times.�

The waitress arrives and asks us if we need anything. Her name is Katie, but not my Katie or Adam�s Kati. A completely different Katie. I order a Coke. A couple minutes later, it arrives.

Kati looks at me. �Now what are you going to do?�

I didn�t expect that. So I don�t answer.

�Do you want to go to California?�

�No. I hate California. Used to live there. It sucked.�

�Well, I�m going to California, and unless you have another car stashed around here somewhere you�re stuck with me.�

I sip at my Coke. It tastes watered down.

I look at Kati, who has finished her bagel. I smile. �Fuck. Why not? I have nothing better to do.�

What worlds are these? I am blinded by the sound of worlds. Dreams of the future, memories of the past, and the seams at which reality is kept.

Afterward

What The Hell Just Happened?

Heh. I�m asking myself the very same thing. Don�t blame me- blame a New Year�s Eve without alcohol. There is a deep, metaphorical line that this story dances around. No, it isn�t that I really want to stay friends with Jason forever. No, it isn�t that I�m secretly in love with Kati Rowe. Don�t be stupid. You think it�s that obvious?

Here. I�ll give you a hint. Only one, though. Appearances are everything. There. That�s all you get. Greedy bastards.

All right, I secretly am in love with you, Kati Rowe. You caught me. I want to have sloppy butt sex. During first period. On the piano. While Mr. Rausch plays Hodie and Kurt videotapes it. We�ll sell copies to homeless people.

I am so fucking tired of this shit story. Good night, bastard reader. Die.