WHAT THE FUCK
is what you'd say if you were me in the school parking lot at seven tonight at the key, you know, the ignition key that's supposed to IGNITE something in your car is igniting nothing but silence and your temper, and oh, the loudest cussword ever, one that shakes your windows and hurts your ears.
And then your hands, just sort of flailing around angrily, push the headlight knob in just out of habit. You can't push the headlight knob in unless the headlight knob has been pulled out. Out, meaning headlights on. Headlights on all day in the school parking lot 'cause it was dark this morning when you pulled in.
Suddenly the lack of ignition is making a lot more sense. Greg is good enough to give you a ride home, and on the way you discuss his plans for the future and he admires the fact that you're applying to NYU. Senior year is one of those bootleg windshield stickers with Calvin peeing on something and cackling evilly. Calvin is reality, he's pissing on your hopes. That's Senior Year. It's that, and the words "Shouldn't I be sleeping in and neglecting every motherfucking thing? How did I miss out on that?"
After dress rehearsal,
I came home and finished my NYU online application. Clicked the "send" button not so much out of a sense of completeness and confidence but just a desire to get something fucking DONE. Now all I have to do is get a counselor recommendation from Mr. Scott and a teacher recommendation from Mrs. Idler and have my dad fill out a bunch of financial aid stuff and finish my twenty-five page portfolio (a excerpt from the play) and mail some forms they won't let you submit electronically, and as long as all this stuff is postmarked by Friday, well, then a council of elders on an island thousands of miles away decides my fate.
And I'm thinking, scraps of paper and directed electron streams, these are what my future is riding on? And then it occurs, naturally, life is people and moments and all that, but that fragility is resting on a thousand miniscule things, the air in your tires, the structural integrity of a latex condom, little gold bands, little chunks of lead, rubber stamps. In the end, a million tiny trinkets conspire to make you who you are, or aren't. It's enough to make you want to shut yourself off in an airtight room and not breathe too heavy for fear of upsetting the million conspiring trinkets.
Tonight, I laid on the cold concrete of the driveway after running, where my truck would be on any other day. If I hadn't left my stupid lights on,
I thought, there would be ten tons of steel where instead I have this view of stars.
Not everything is tragedy and anticlimax,
say the stars.
I say, they're just more fun to write about.
You should go to bed,
say the stars.
And you know, they're right. Not for the first time, either.
Trevor got his car back today.