As I pulled to the side of the road, my head lights brightened the large green sign saying "New York 60 miles". Reminiscing on the times of old, times that made me want to paint the roof of my Chevy with my 9mm brush and my gunpowder based red paint. The times when I was an innocent child seems like I only blinked my eyes from a senior in high school, now I find myself here debating weather I should explore the afterlife, or continue to live through my current nightmare that I'll never wake up from. The significance of New York is that is the place where my life went from a day dream to a nightmare. High school is an overrated experience, all of the false love and hormones don't mix, it's like a firework show everyday there is some explosion of supposed lovers. Only one of my supposed friends remained in my life after my escape from that desolate pit of despair. Derrick was the name of the odd fellow, whom I still owe my life. He was a man I never knew even existed until my 7th grade English class. Mrs. Grant, it was her being that Derrick and I bonded, after being thrown into a group of 5 of which he and I were the only ones to care about our academic stand points. To show how similar he and I were, we were the only two to walk out of that class with an A of any sort with the idiotic 92-100 A grading system our middle school used for scale. After my 8th grade graduation from the horrid practical prison the refer to as Lower Manhattan Middle School, I would never return and I'm glad I never did. The year after I would graduate from the prison a fire would start in the kitchen terribly burning two cooks and comprise the "structural integrity" to cause the place to be torn down and a new school to be built where it once stood. In my first realization of what high school truly was, is and how at first it to me was a god-send, was in art class. It seemed to be the first time I could truly express my creativity and emotion in the same moment. It's why I grew with a love for writing I could express my emotion or creativity, but I could never find a compromise of the two in the same piece of literature, written by me or a supposed "professional". Although in art I found a way to express myself in a good way. In high school I become the typical jock, a time I look back on now finding it quite enjoyable. I, my fresh man year was 6'2 and 250 of half muscle the other half body fat, but somehow would be faster then most being able to run a 6 minute mile. Only now if my speed could help me out run the horrors of my life. It was football that would be the long, deep rooted problem that would cause me to consider a trip to the pearly gates. Perhaps God would allow me on moment to apologize to Derrick, before he would banish me to the 7th layer of hell to burn in my sin.
