Мэтью Квик - Forgive me, Leonard Peacock

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Why is it that great guys almost always let you down just as soon as you start to believe in them? Is that a rule of the universe or something? WTF?

The trigger reminds me of a frozen snake’s tongue.

This is what used to happen when I was alone with Asher in his bedroom too—I’d just sort of detach and float above as what happened happened. And for a while that was enough to protect me from feeling too bad. It was like what was happening was happening to someone else, while I floated safely with my back against the ceiling and my eyes closed.

The news world will make me instantly famous for sure, and what is fame if it isn’t power and popularity?

I remember that happening suddenly. I do. It’s a real memory. Where did it come from?

Mostly because I’d be too afraid of what people would say about me if they deduced just who it was that took the photo and then, therefore, would know I was watching Asher through his bedroom window. “Why?” they’d ask me. Explaining the reason to übermorons would be worse than death any day. And Asher would definitely incriminate me if that picture ever got out. He’d drag me down with him for sure. Offer me up to the übermorons like a sacrifice. They’d believe whatever he said too, because he’s more like them than I am.

It makes me think about how Hamlet had the chance to kill Claudius while he was praying, but didn’t since Claudius had just made peace with god, asked for god’s forgiveness, and therefore was eligible for entrance into heaven, as Lauren will tell you. So Hamlet waited for a time when Claudius was sinning. Would Hamlet have killed Claudius if he had found him jerking off like Asher? For some reason, I don’t think so, which makes me feel better. Who could kill someone while they were jerking off? It seems impossible. I bet Hamlet would have laughed if he found his father’s murderer rubbing one out. How could you not laugh?

And given what public school teachers are paid, this is really saying something.

It sounds so weird to be saying the word kill to my Holocaust teacher—admitting that I actually attempted to kill a classmate. Allowing the words to exist in the two or so feet between Herr Silverman and me—it feels surreal. It makes me realize how crazy I was earlier—how crazy I’ve been. I’m simultaneously freaked out and relieved. Fucked but freed, if that makes any sense at all. Reminds me of what Herr Silverman says about doubling in his Holocaust class.

It’s funny because we never used Bogart hats before yesterday, but somehow I understand that his putting the hat on is symbolic—a sign that we are about to talk in code. Walt and I have something going on that’s hard to explain. We understand each other. We just do. And I love that so much. Good-guy pheromones.