|Mux is a Moron (standard:humor, 3179 words)|
|Author: The man in the lead codpiece||Added: Sep 25 2000||Views/Reads: 2735/1337||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Mux was always a loser. Come and watch him screw up again.|
I shuffled from class to class until I got to Study Hall, the last period of the day. I took my seat and lay my head down. "Hey, Mux," someone yelled across the crowded cafeteria. "You're a freak!" "Thank you so much," I didn't say, "I needed to hear that, because it isn't like I tell that to myself enough, or anything." Well, today had been good so far, I guess I should have figured that something would have to happen. If there is one thing that I have learned in life, it is that good things don't happen to people like me without something equally bad, or worse, happening afterward. It's not like I look all that much different than anyone else. I'm not very tall, not too short. Not too fat, but not really skinny. Just pretty average I guess. But I act different, and for that crime I must pay, and pay dearly. I like to do things that are out of the norm. I don't see how people can live their lives doing things like everyone else. So there I was in Study Hall. Hadn't done anything strange in particular, but for some reason that can only be found in the meager dwelling of a jock's brain, I needed to be called a freak. Or maybe it was everyone else he had to tell, because it wasn't like he had come over and told me quietly, he needed to make it heard by everyone. Even now the words echo in the halls. Or maybe that is just my mind. As for that day, it had been fairly good. I hadn't thought about suicide, or self-mutilation, all day. I had been content. Perhaps that was what was so strange about me. I had probably been smiling. Why would I do that? At least I'm not depressed. Mostly I am just frustrated and confused. I think I have a right to be. When I was three, I had a friend. He was the best friend that anyone could possibly find. What ever I had was his, and I am certain that I could have anything of his that I asked for. We were inseparable. Every single day, I would be at his house, or he would be at mine, and we would play. I was happy. When I was eight, my mother decided that the area was too violent, so we moved. And moved, and moved, and moved. Every six months to a year, we would be in a new house. My family was in a constant state of change. As soon as we got unpacked, it was time to find a new house. Once it was found, it was time to pack up, and move on. Through all this time of packing, unpacking and finding new houses, many things happened. Eventually, we ended up in Montana. Here is where irony steps in: I had never been in a fight in my entire life, but once we move here someone decides that my face would look much better with his knuckles embedded in it. I stepped off the bus, thinking nothing in particular. Someone taps my shoulder. I turn. I see fist, white, fist, white, blur. I pick up the pieces of my glasses and I walk home. I never saw who did it, but later someone came to my house and told me. He was a kid who was a grade below me. Apparently he thought I had been talking about him. I knew this wasn't possible, seeing as how I didn't even know the kid. But he got his. All the people who had watched the fight grabbed him and dunked him in a slush puddle. And his aunt had to give my parents money for my glasses being busted into tiny bits. That was my freshman year. I'm a senior now. Things haven't changed all that much. I have recently discovered that I have two tattoos on my forehead. One can only be seen by guys. It says, "I'm weaker than you!" And the other can only be seen by girls. It tells them "Don't talk to me." I wish I could get them erased. Girls. The cruelest creatures on hell and earth. They'd like to rip out my heart as quick as look at me. But I don't mind as long as they look. When I was in sixth grade, a girl, a rather good looking one, asked me if I wanted to go out. "Okay," says Mux as his heart does summersaults, and his brain does a backflip. "I was just kidding," laughs the demon in the girl-skin suit, "you retard!" Well, that was my experience with relationships. And why not tell another one while we are at it? One time I really liked a girl, but had no idea how to tell her. Everything I did seemed to make her ignore me even more. One day I get the courage to ask her if she wants to go somewhere for lunch with me. She says yes. The summersaults and backflips ensue yet again. The day ends, and a new one begins. Lunchtime comes, and still I haven't seen the pulchritudinous female who had only yesterday agreed to accompany me to the Dairy Queen. Mux searches far and wide; there is no sign of her. A year and a half later she still hasn't told me what happened. She still ignores me. And since we have opened this wound, why not just one more? Stupid! Pathetic, Mux has fallen in love. And the retard that he is, he told nothing but the truth to the new victim of his affection. "I love you more than anything," I confess as I hand my heart to her on a plate, "I'd do anything to make you happy." "I don't feel the same way," she howls as she buries a fork into my heart and throws it on the floor. Gives it a small kick for good measure. Ah, love, what a beautiful thing. I ooze my way out the door, and in the Click here to read the rest of this story (165 more lines)
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