Motorama
I want to go home. I don’t even know why I thought this was a good idea. I will never fit in, and besides, this makes me sick and I don’t even want to fit into this. I want to go home.
This is gross. How did I get here. In my life, I mean. I feel like I just woke up and found myself in the future, and the future is a nightmare.
Mark is spitting on me again. I have a gross motel blanket pulled over my head, but I can feel the spit hitting it. He has slowed down on the swearing at me, but the hating hasn't stopped.
Stacey and Ron are on the bed by the window, still. Sounds like they are doing it. I won't do it with Mark. I didn't know he was for sure expecting that. It seemed like we were really having fun. It actually seemed like we might be really liking each other, which surprised me because he's always sort of hated me, but we really seemed like we were connecting tonight. We were. He is smarter than I thought before. We were laughing about books and even talked about physics for a little while. But then he wanted to do it and I wouldn't let him and he forced it and I had to force it back and he got pissed. Really pissed. As you can tell; I'm not huddled under a smelly blanket on the floor of a scummy motel room for no reason.
We are at the Motorama. Someone was shot here last weekend. When we were coming in here tonight, there was this totally bloody guy in the parking lot. There are a lot of hookers floating around outside, too. I wonder how hookers do it. I would rather be spit on right now and get the occasional punch to the head that to give in and actually have sex with Mark. It would be so much easier if I could just go along with him. But sometimes I just can't. I don't like him that way. Or I am not scared of him enough? I don't know. But there have been times, I am not very flattered about myself to report, that I don't stop the guy. Even if I don't want him to go that far, there have been times that I don't fight them about it. Man, this is pathetic, but is it just that Mark is not very big, so I knew I did have a chance in fighting him off? Because Ron and Gary Pinccinini, they are both way too heavy for me to have a shot at that if they turned on me like Mark has. But there is also a certain resigned feeling I get with some people, like, this sounds queer, but because they are, like, men. Man-sized, anyway, and Mark is more like punk-rock-singer sized.
I don't know. I am probably not making any sense. But that's what I have to work with. I just want to go home.
How long are we going to have to stay here? I cannot face the thought of this going on all night. I am spending the night at Stacey's, so I don't have to worry about getting home or anything. And she hates to wake up anywhere but her own bed, so we will definitely get going before sunlight, but it's only 2:30 right now. Ow---I believe a Giddeon's bible just smashed into my arm. Why does he keep calling me a slut if the problem is I wouldn't do it with him? You wouldn't believe how ignorant the people who call you a slut usually are. It is not one of the words used by our greater minds, I have noticed. Yeah, what a stupid fucker he is.
"If I'm such a fucking slut, why won't I fuck you then, asshole!" Back under cover of the blanket before spit hits me. Ah! Dick, he just punched me in the head, hard. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. I want to go home. Why am I a teenage slut? This was never in the cards. I am supposed to be climbing trees and drawing pictures and falling in love with the smart, shy boy across the library from me. Or the nice, sturdy boy who wears overalls and helps his dad around the house. I hate myself.
This is gross. How did I get here. In my life, I mean. I feel like I just woke up and found myself in the future, and the future is a nightmare.
Mark is spitting on me again. I have a gross motel blanket pulled over my head, but I can feel the spit hitting it. He has slowed down on the swearing at me, but the hating hasn't stopped.
Stacey and Ron are on the bed by the window, still. Sounds like they are doing it. I won't do it with Mark. I didn't know he was for sure expecting that. It seemed like we were really having fun. It actually seemed like we might be really liking each other, which surprised me because he's always sort of hated me, but we really seemed like we were connecting tonight. We were. He is smarter than I thought before. We were laughing about books and even talked about physics for a little while. But then he wanted to do it and I wouldn't let him and he forced it and I had to force it back and he got pissed. Really pissed. As you can tell; I'm not huddled under a smelly blanket on the floor of a scummy motel room for no reason.
We are at the Motorama. Someone was shot here last weekend. When we were coming in here tonight, there was this totally bloody guy in the parking lot. There are a lot of hookers floating around outside, too. I wonder how hookers do it. I would rather be spit on right now and get the occasional punch to the head that to give in and actually have sex with Mark. It would be so much easier if I could just go along with him. But sometimes I just can't. I don't like him that way. Or I am not scared of him enough? I don't know. But there have been times, I am not very flattered about myself to report, that I don't stop the guy. Even if I don't want him to go that far, there have been times that I don't fight them about it. Man, this is pathetic, but is it just that Mark is not very big, so I knew I did have a chance in fighting him off? Because Ron and Gary Pinccinini, they are both way too heavy for me to have a shot at that if they turned on me like Mark has. But there is also a certain resigned feeling I get with some people, like, this sounds queer, but because they are, like, men. Man-sized, anyway, and Mark is more like punk-rock-singer sized.
I don't know. I am probably not making any sense. But that's what I have to work with. I just want to go home.
How long are we going to have to stay here? I cannot face the thought of this going on all night. I am spending the night at Stacey's, so I don't have to worry about getting home or anything. And she hates to wake up anywhere but her own bed, so we will definitely get going before sunlight, but it's only 2:30 right now. Ow---I believe a Giddeon's bible just smashed into my arm. Why does he keep calling me a slut if the problem is I wouldn't do it with him? You wouldn't believe how ignorant the people who call you a slut usually are. It is not one of the words used by our greater minds, I have noticed. Yeah, what a stupid fucker he is.
"If I'm such a fucking slut, why won't I fuck you then, asshole!" Back under cover of the blanket before spit hits me. Ah! Dick, he just punched me in the head, hard. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. I want to go home. Why am I a teenage slut? This was never in the cards. I am supposed to be climbing trees and drawing pictures and falling in love with the smart, shy boy across the library from me. Or the nice, sturdy boy who wears overalls and helps his dad around the house. I hate myself.
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