A Normal Day

To get up, and just keep on going through the day. How do some people do it? Where I’m from, they mostly do it by smoking, drinking, or shoving pills or drugs through their veins. They laugh at those who do good with their life, and invite the ones who are just as bad as themselves.

There’s this one girl in my class. I won’t give her real name, so let’s call her Ashley. I’ve known Ashley for quite a while, back in elementary school. She was a carefree brunette. She was a tomboy back then, always bringing me about the playground to play, when all I wanted to do was stay in the safety shade under the tree on top of the hill. I never wanted to leave that spot. I always practiced drawing there. On a sunny day, I’d be right there, until the fresh green leaves, just trying to find inspiration for my next little doodle. During the winter, I’d stay at my desk during our play time and draw. Everyone else was playing.

Ashley made sure I at least got away from my drawings once a week, during our recesses. Made me follow her as she dragged me along the playground. I’d whimper quietly about how I didn’t like the sun, and it was too hot to run around, but she wouldn’t listen. She’d still drag me around, like I was as athletic as her. Those were simpler times. Times where she actually didn’t mind me.

Fast forward a couple years, to about 5th grade. She’s changed from the two or three years I’ve known her. I’m stuck in the past, expecting her to drag me around during recess. But she wouldn’t. She had met new girls. One’s name was Carla, and the other, Daisy (their names are changed too.) Now Carla was a little like me, Hispanic, mexicanish, some people call it. Darker than white but whiter than black. But you could tell I was completely American. Daisy was a soft white, not like bleached skin, but like she was darker, but she softly used natural ingredients to whiten her tone. The three were gorgeous little ladies at the time (Remember I’m just as young as they are right now, so there’s no pedo stuff.). But I always expected Ashley to come and take me away around the playground. Now? Now, they just walked around. They wore tighter clothes, skinny jeans. Hookers in the making, maybe? That’s what I’d call them now, but this is then. They talked about a lot of things, boys, clothes, make up. And they passed right by me occasionally. This is where I started my ‘Hooker-fest’ era of drawings.

I didn’t see Ashley or her friends for all of middle school, so let’s skip to the present. Right now, she hasn’t changed since 5th grade. Yet I overheard her friends, and more newer ones, all talk of drugs and alcohol and sex. They’re all like reincarnations of the worst hookers known to man. They still wear their skin tight jeans. But now they have rips in the thighs. They have see-through leggings and thongs on, they don’t bother to conceal themselves. they wear spagetthi straps and show off their cleavage, ripped up shirts that show their bra. they wear millions of shades of eye shadow. Countless eye liners and lipsticks. They don’t know the meaning of ‘too much’ anything… It’s sad, because the little girls I once knew as friends grew up to be (in my mind) crazy, psychotic girls who would rather fuck for money than get a job. These girls, are still going to be future sluts. I know this. They’re already heading in that direction.

I used to sit with her in one class we had together. It was before I switched my seat somewhere else in the class. She recognized it was me, the Domino she once knew, and began talking to me again. Her friends apparently knew me from my pieces of art around the school. They talked to me. I felt like I was one of them again. I was so close to getting Ashley back, and away from the world. They told me the Homecoming dance was coming up. They’d take me to the mall, get me a nice tuxedo and a pretty lady to dance with. They even introduced me to the fair maiden during our similar lunch periods. I couldn’t make up the idea of actually going to homecoming or not. I consulted with friends. They said DO NOT GO. I didn’t. They were right. They were caught giving blowjobs to guys behind the bleachers. Pictures over the internet shown them with running lipstick, crazy hair, and messed up, very slutty prom dresses. I’d never talk to them again.

It’s sad. Because while they all go by with life.

I’m still waiting. For her to take me by the wrist and drag me around the playground once more.

~ True Story by DOMINO JAYS