The cupcakes spiraled to the ground, slowly – as if the air had grown denser to elongate their fall and in turn further torture yours truly - turning, spiraling out of the football-player’s hand, until they smashed into the unforgiving asphalt, staining it a startling shade of pink. I paused momentarily to look at Number One’s ebony face, to watch the look of anger and confusion that contorted his roughly-hewn features.

The first millisecond or so after I realized the undeniable stupidity of my decision and broke into a desperate sprint.

As my pace increased and my adrenaline began working overtime, I recalled the first instant I set eyes on him. My initial reaction was something along the lines of shit; he’s huge for a sophomore. And huge he was. Not large in a fattened, disproportional way, but lean and tall – his body painstakingly covered in sinewy muscle that his fellow football players envied. His afro was chopped short in typical jock fashion, and his eyes were utterly devoid of color – black as pitch, augmenting his already fearsome demeanor.

            In the freshmen-sophomore dichotomy of our Biology classroom, it was apparent that the latter reigned king. The unfortunate pairing was a result of the blatant naivety of the school administration – or maybe it was just maliciousness? Nonetheless, the end result was a rather mismatched class of quaky freshmen nerds (including myself) and testosterone-pumped sophomore jocks.

            Why I was picked out of all unfortunate pariahs’ that that class harbored, I have no idea. Whether it was the unfashionably long greasy hair, the scrawny, undefined body, or the lack of aspiration to ever flower in social circles is a mystery to me. What I do know, however, is that the casual bullying escalated to the eventual slapping-of-the-cupcakes – my rather peculiar choice of retaliation.

            In the classroom, I did naught but stare out into space and occasionally exchange a few awkward words with my mustached Hispanic lab partner. For the majority of the time I would zone out and ponder the depths of reality, which usually pertained to my undying love for my partner’s rather badass stache. However, I also did hold a certain grudging admiration for Number One’s rippling muscles, as I had only recently reached puberty and had naught but two lonely lumps to boast of. Occasionally I would fall into a stupor and accidentally find myself jealously staring at his toned arms – not at all in a homosexual way, but with a grudging admiration and envy.

            If this is what he noticed (and probably mistook as a queer sexual desire on my part), then I would take solace in the fact that this disaster, this cataclysmic mishap that transpired as a result of my hopeless temerity was not based on my social ranking, but rather a subconscious flub.

            Every once in a while I would suddenly snap out of my insipid state, wipe the residual flecks of drool off of my chin and purposefully observe these mighty meatheads (aka football players). One thing I noticed was that they played a relatively pointless game in which they slapped each other’s necks whenever the teacher’s head was turned (not that he really would have cared much in the first place; the teacher also happened to be an ex-football coach and happened to be particularly accommodating, if not nostalgic, about their antics). The point of this game was to see who could slap the other’s neck the most frequently and with the most power. I assumed they derived some type of bizarre satisfaction from this, but never understood the attraction. Most likely they simply enjoyed demonstrating their physical prowess and proving their superiority. This jock mentality has always struck me as analogous to that of primal beasts, such as apes. Their cognitive functions are equally adept, and they socially rank themselves not by intellect but by brute strength. Both ape and jock are potentially violent to a fault, and have minds dominated by sex and sex and sheer machismo. Also, as if this argument even needs to be furthered, they both process opposing thumbs. The only main difference I could visibly discern was that apes typically have more hair than the average jock, but even this at times is indiscernible.

            Back on topic, after a while in the class I noticed I would occasionally attract rather rude stares coming from the football players – Number One being amongst them. Either they shared my distaste for rudimentary Biology and were also all zoning out in my general direction, or they simply had taken a queer dislike for me.

            I began to make a conscious effort to avoid them, especially Number One, as I had learned he had a history of being suspended for fighting. However, this did not stop the stares, or the muttering. I feared I had become the butt of some horrid jock fascination.

            This underlying tension erupted when I was walking out of the Biology after a thoroughly uneventful period. My eyes cringed at the sight of the sun, and I briefly stretched in an attempt to escape the Bio-induced stupor I had lapsed into the previous period. Number One was carrying a paper plate laden with pink frosted cupcakes – presumably the flirtatious move of a girl who had a thing for black men with bulging calf muscles. I was directly ahead of him, and my mind was already sinking back into that endless abyss that others simply call daydreaming.

              Suddenly, I felt a burst of pain on the back of my neck, and heard a string of deep-throated guffaws. I realized I had been slapped. And then I felt angry.

            I stalked over to the group of football players, and demanded to know which of them had hit me. The only answer I received was an unassuming “None of us!” and a few half-concealed smiles.     

            I felt angry. So, so angry. I wanted to scream, to rip their heads off, literally and metaphorically, to deliver an emotional verbal diatribe and make them see their own overtly pretentious characteristics.

            I took a few deep breathes and walked over to a fellow freshman I was barely acquainted with to ask which conceited bastard had slapped my neck. He timidly pointed out Number One, in all his glory, football uniform and all, as he strutted alongside a pudgy football friend.

            I broke briefly into a jog and began walking behind him, a few feet away. I had no idea what I was going to do, but I followed him all the same. The anger was simmering inside of me, fermenting, waiting to be released in one fatal swoop.

            I examined the duo, walking along, and realized Number One was miming slapping motions with one hand for the fat boy’s enjoyment. Rage filled me, permeated my entire being until my mind was intoxicated with the rush of adrenaline.

            My vision blurred, and I ran up behind Number One and tapped him on the left shoulder, causing him to turn and stare at me stupidly. With a speed I didn’t know I had, I slapped the cupcakes from his hands, and so they fell, fell for oh so long.

            And now I run. Run against the fastest sprinter in the school, high off of adrenaline, careening this way and that, stumbling my way across a wasteland were only I and the football zealot exist, across an unforgiving Hell, across a cupcake-infested frontier were reality and the depths of my psyche coalesce into a singular dimension, all stained a startling shade of pink. Cupcake pink.    

Oh lordy. I have an audition for the SCSBOA Honors Jazz Group tomorrow morning. I’m a tad bit nervous. I’m really fucking nervous.

I dislike it when more experienced jazz musicians scoff at kids listening to less accessible jazz music.

Just because one doesn’t completely understand the significance behind every lick doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate it.

That’s bullshit.

My room is frighteningly clean. It’s rather frightening. And I’m rather frightened.

Time to unwind and spend all weekend listening to ambient music.

Night is a time to listen to Coltrane and sort through one’s shitty poetry.

I need to take a shit, and I want to read my Allen Ginsberg interviews book.

What perfect timing. I love this kind of multitasking.

I’m not sure why, but I always feel slightly sentimental when sitting on the toilet.

Hungry?

Synthetic French Toast bread will do the job.

At least for me. Every day. Usually around 4 o’ clock.

Why hello there.

This is me.

I really want to:

1. Rewatch The Big Lebowski
2. Chill out to Sun Ra’s celestial funks
3. Read my Beat library books
4. Jerk off

Unfortunately, finals call - if I fail to please my inept, fat teachers they’ll give me a shit grade.

So I guess I’ll just go off and study a bunch of bullshit that I won’t ever apply towards my actual life. History is the worst; I don’t even agree with the biased bullfeces I’m forced to learn.

I have to study this crap instead of jerking off doing something that’s actually semi-productive.

Shoot me.