I’m twelve. I’m a boy. My life is simple. I’m not in puberty yet, although the girls I go to school with are growing tits. I don’t care about that. I’d rather build models and fly my radio controlled airplanes. Do you know you can build a model of Billy Bishop’s Sopwith Camel and drive it into the Red Baron’s biplane for $15.98? Big money. My paper route pays for the models I love to crash.
My Dad had to deliver groceries when he was a kid. Dad says he was always tired as a teenager. He was riding around delivering groceries. I get to crash planes.
My life changed last week. My Mom, she teaches. I don’t know what is in her head, she has allergies. Well my Mom, she brought this thing home. Wizend face, taped ears for crying out loud, taped tail, my God. Marmaduke is a Boxer. This piece of misery, body parts loped off - three that I could count, well that was my new dog. I was afraid to touch him.
So I gave him a piece of my sandwich. PBJ are my favorite, but I like bratwurst too. That one was PBJ. The peanut butter stuck to his mouth and he slobbered all over the carpet, gross, slimy mouth like when Aunty Miriam kisses me at Thanksgiving. But Aunty Miriam doesn't like PBJ so I guess she always slobbers. Aunty Miriam was Dad's sister and she worked in the post office. She told me most of her job was about licking stamps, so I guess slobbering was kind of useful for her, really, but she never put the stamps straight 'cause she only had one eye, but that wasn't totally my fault, everyone said so. Anyway, I think I'm going to like it here at Longthorne Junior High. Any questions?
Good one. Yes, it's true, I'm twelve and I seriously don't care about tits.
Opening: Bibi.....Continuation: Anon.