Baker Street at midnight, any day.
Like so many words I'd heard that semester, these stuck like a bolus in the back of my mind, not stirring me to action, but there, clinging.
Fall went by at a drowsy clip. The school bus never went near my house and my parents were too tired from fucking to drive me, so every morning I took the tractor to school. At first, people thought nothing of it, just a kid rumbling down Main Street in a dew-glazed John Deere. But soon they noticed me taking it out every day, stifling what little traffic trickled through Fistwood, until an officer approached me about and I told him to shit blood. When I got to school, I parked the tractor in a wooded area nearby, where it sat for seven hours; my parents never seemed to need it.
Class itself became a vacuum of the intellect, as none of my teachers, let alone my peers, understood my opinions on Tolstoy, and given how rheumy and lost their eyes looked when I used long words, I might have been speaking Sumerian. So I gave up any attempt at an education, shot through my semester workload in a week, and sat in the back sketching Banach manifolds. Other than the rare instance where I'd want to finger-paint a picture or mold some clay, I stayed out of the mayhem all day, content with my drawings and praying there would be no groupwork. Ms. Beauvoir, one of the floral-print marms I mentioned earlier, quit calling on me for answers when I asked her why she had an intact hymen.
Near the end of the semester, classes ended for Thanksgiving. This might have been a boon to your average second-grader, but for me, visiting extended family seemed a duller experience than that godawful school. What I didn't realize then was just how far from dull it would turn out to be, and how my life would change that weekend.
Yes, hold that quilt closer. It's about to get strange.