Journal Of A Teenage Psychopath

21

They keep trying to talk to me when there's nothing to say. I don't understand why they're so adamant about something so stupid.

My parents are so annoying. What's the point in beating this dead horse of a subject when there's nothing to solve - no point in hammering at the useless topic of the imaginary issues they want to discuss. It won't do anything, and if they're too dumb to understand on their own then they don't deserve my help to make them.

Except my dad doesn't look as angry as my mom. They don't notice when I do things 'cause I hide to keep off their radar, so I guess this is all newer. But my mom isn't being anywhere near fair. She's trying to control and change things when everything's been perfectly fine before.

She wants me to talk, but I try to get a word in edge wise and she won't even let me speak!

If they know so much better better than me, then why don't they act like it for once instead of blundering around like some idiot kid?

My dad tried playing nice guy. He said he'd make me a deal if I just talked with him, but newsflash it was too late. You can't get huffy and then turn on a dime and expect me to play along. Thanks but no thanks - I left after that.

It wasn't too long back that I realized how nice my neighborhood's layout is. All these trees and telephone poles, and fences and buildings - all so close together it's like a jungle home above the ground. I can get from Charleston St to Hoover Ave without a problem. Climbing around branches and jumping from rooftops.

I like skipping across the Kenderson's house. I hear Mrs. Kenderson complaining to her daughter about the racoons. She keeps hiring pest control and I keep banging along her roof.

Sometimes at night.

But today I traveled over to the huge sycamore or pine tree, or whatever that giant thing is in the park. Sometimes I throw pine cones at the kids.

I've been getting pretty good. Sometimes I hit ice cream cones right out of their hands. I got the idea from a squirrel that I'm pretty sure did the exact same thing to me one time.

The ice cream truck is iconic. It always comes round. There at the park, exactly around four.

Today I noticed The Pideon Kid's house. This small stubby kid with a nose so pointy I could've sworn it popped a balloon once.

That van was parked outside.

It's weird, that van. I keep wondering if it's some stranger that's sneaking around for the perfect target to grab. Some child walking down the street late in the evening, all on their own, ready to be kidnapped out from under their feet.

At family reunions my aunt sometimes talks about the time she was ALMOST kidnapped on her last day of third grade. She's a paranoid old coot and she's always ranting that you can't trust anyone these days. She swears up and down that the people at her Walmart customer service are out to scam her.

Maybe she's right.

Not about Walmart, but that you shouldn't trust people. In my experience, most people do. And it makes my life so much easier. Easier to lie. Easier to cheat. Easier to steal. You're all just too trusting. Everyone of you holding some vain and wildish idea that people aren't fighting down the urge to take you for all your worth every second of every day of your misguided, trusting lives.

People are stupid.

I honestly think maybe the real psychopaths have a place in the world. The sneaky murders picking off the weak trusting fools and showing the rest of us we need to wise up.

And really, when you think of all the many, many ways to kill someone - take out the human element and how hard can it be?

Guns are impersonal loud bangs. Knives are close up tools to living flesh and sticky blood. Poison can either be a show, or a way to hide yourself from the resulting effects of the death. Isn't that why the classics call it the woman's weapon? The black widow's way to murder? Because the feminine aspect can't stomach the close up image of assault?

But I don't see why not. Death is just a goodbye. It's just the same as a friend moving to Asia where you might never see them for the rest of your living days. It's the possibility being mourned. Not the person. One minute they're there, the next they aren't. Like shutting a door. Everyone dies to us the moment they leave our sight.

So bring it on dark and mysterious gray van parked outside The Pideon Kid's house.

The world needs you.