Just a snaggle of thoughts, experiences, and . . . .maybe some wisdom.
i want this cape
(via pooreyesrichlives)
you thought I didn’t really notice. But I did. I wanted to high-five you.
Yesterday I had a pair of brothers in my store. One was maybe between 15-17. He was a wrestler at the local high school. Kind of tall, stocky and handsome. He had a younger brother, who was maybe about…
One teachers approach to preventing gender bullying in a classroom
Alie arrived at our 1st-grade classroom wearing a sweatshirt with a hood. I asked her to take off her hood, and she refused. I thought she was just being difficult and ignored it. After breakfast we got in line for art, and I noticed that she still had not removed her hood. When we arrived at the art room, I said: “Allie, I’m not playing. It’s time for art. The rule is no hoods or hats in school.”
She looked up with tears in her eyes and I realized there was something wrong. Her classmates went into the art room and we moved to the art storage area so her classmates wouldn’t hear our conversation. I softened my tone and asked her if she’d like to tell me what was wrong.
“My ponytail,” she cried.
“Can I see?” I asked.
She nodded and pulled down her hood. Allie’s braids had come undone overnight and there hadn’t been time to redo them in the morning, so they had to be put back in a ponytail. It was high up on the back of her head like those of many girls in our class, but I could see that to Allie it just felt wrong. With Allie’s permission, I took the elastic out and re-braided her hair so it could hang down.
“How’s that?” I asked.
She smiled. “Good,” she said and skipped off to join her friends in art.
‘Why Do You Look Like a Boy?’
Im visiting family in oklahoma
its beautiful, and boring here
im so horny right now, i guess i could go masterbate in the woods
one sick fucker
Those were the days when i was with the lord, i handed out tracts, witnessed to the lost, raised my hands and shouted “Hallelujah!” by day, and at night i masturbated to the way too small and limited men’s underwear section in the Sears catalog. Seriously, there is not enough variety in men’s underwear.
I recently went to visit my parents, and my mom had two huge tubs full of different keepsake things she had saved from my childhood. She asked me if i wanted them, since i was living on my own now. These tubs contained various report cards, my stuffed monkey “Monkey Campbell” that i carried around with me when i was three, my graduation gown from head-start, and a letter a bum had left in my backpack.
My Christian friends and i would have bible studies and worship service at the town square on Thursday nights after school. Usually after school i would take the bus to my friend Sandy’s house and we would walk to the square to get ready for the bible study. We praised Jesus, and gave each other spiritual advice. One night i had my back pack with me, containing a school book or two, some folders with worship music, and my complete collection of journals from the sixth grade up to the ninth grade. After the bible study we left and ate some fast food when i realized that i had left my bag at the square. Panic, panic was the feeling that arose inside of me. What if someone had read my journals, all the intimate thoughts of a closeted junior high schooler. The pages that talked about how in love with the lord i was, and the pages that talked about how in love with Brad Pitt i was, only separated by by a couple lines of mediocre poetry.
I insisted that we go back to get it. It was dark now, and the town squares lights were off, i went to where my bag was left, and in its place was a dog roll of human shit, and a can of cream corn. A bum, yes a bum, or bag lady, or meth head had tried to trade my back pack for a pile fecal matter and a half eaten can of cream corn.
It was over a week before i got my bag back. I was sitting on the couch praying that whoever was reading my journals didn’t know me, when i got a phone call.
“Is Johnathon Campbell there?”
“This is him.”
“Hi, this is Diane from Wal-Mart, we have your back pack.”
Apparently the hobo had taken it across town and ditched it in the Wal-Mart parking lot. I went to wal-mart to get my bag, inside of it there was a note that said
“Hey, i took your bag and left it at the Wal-Mart parking lot. I stole all your pens. You are one sick fucker.
-B”
I was right the whole time, his name was B, he must be a Bum. I searched my bag for anything that was missing, only the ink pens. I realized that whoever this Bum was had read my journals, why else would he call me “one sick fucker”. Since then, it has also occurred to me that Diane from Wal-Mart had most likely read my journals as well, because the only way she could had gotten my phone number was because on the front of my journals it said “Property of Johnathon Campbell, DO NOT READ! if found please call 555-5115”
So now Sam Walton himself knows all the complexities of my inner most thoughts, the entry about my arguments with friends, about my work with the church, and about my penis size, among many other things. In fact, i am willing to bet that Diane photocopied the pages, and posted them in the employee break room so that her co-workers could get a laugh at my turmoil. At this point in time, and many after that, i said to myself “I hate everything.”
Why do white people in saint Louis think that they are too good to ride the transit busses? It’s stupid
Sorry i havn’t updated in a while, life has been chaotic, the oldest person i have ever known passed away, she was 101, my roommate got mugged by gay bashers, and i am still battling with healthcare bureaucracy. I don’t have a phone, and that is making things more difficult. Ugh
