Confessions of Joel – a short story

Part One


I’m writing this in the second floor rest room stall at school. I sit in here every day for  most of six period because I have no idea what the hell’s going on in that class, my teacher doesn’t give a shit if I pass or not, which I won’t.

Note: I’m writing this of sound mind and body; this is my sincere confession of what I see as my sins and short comings.

Note: you may laugh at what you’re about to read, but, like I said, I’m trying to be sincere and get this shit expressed properly. I’m not too articulate, but I’m going to do my best:

I wrote out a list today in credit recovery, it’s a list of all the reasons I think I need to become a drafter or hang myself. I won’t bore you with the whole list, I’ll just give you the highlights:

One, I’m a dumbass academically, I spend basically all my class time staring at the window with my thumb up my ass. My teachers and classmates all think I’m a fool, and they’re pretty much right.

Two, I’m sixteen and I don’t know how I’m supposed to becoming a functioning member of society, and odds are I won’t find out by rotting in this stall for two more years.

Three, I’m failing history because I can’t stop staring at my teacher’s ass long enough to pay attention, I’m a horny animal and I lack sexual morals.

Four, I’m hopelessly addicted to marijuana.

Five, despite trying to be good and just soul, I always end up borrowing my mom’s phone at night to surf porn on the internet.

Six, and probably the saddest thing of all, yesterday in credit recovery, this big baboon that sits in the back named

Robert Horn shit his pants in the middle of class. Robert isn’t special or anything, he’s just a crude jack ass. Anyways, all the other baboons started pointing at him and laughing, and Robert laughed, and I joined in too. I laughed with those drooling, immature pricks.

No, I was one of those drooling, immature pricks.

     I was a Robert Horn.

I’m sixteen years old and I laughed at someone shitting their pants.


How can I live the rest of my life knowing that?

How am I supposed to become an adult and live a just and respectable life when I remember that I shared a laugh with that fat fool.

I will walk the earth for the rest of my life with that baboon’s face in the back of my head, laughing in his soiled jeans, reminding me that we are the same.


Part Two


I’m sitting in my shed alone. I’m praying and waiting for God to tell me what I need to do and what I have in my life that I need to get rid of to get where I’m supposed to be, I’m waiting for a vision, or to at least for Him to tell me what I’m supposed to do with myself.

Note: I’m not praying to any certain God, I’m praying to whatever one is listening.

The reason I’m sitting her praying is the same reason everyone needs to pray: I’m praying because I don’t want to live a life that’s not about truth; the world’s full of shit and I want out, but every time I get a grip on something honest, I get horny and high or get caught up in something stupid on TV.

My situation is starting to look hopeless. I’m left with two options:

Option one, kill myself.

That would be poetic justice. I’d be a martyr. I’d be killing myself for my belief that living in a world of bull shit and people laughing at someone shitting their pants is worse than death — and it is, don’t be fooled.

Option two, I could go across America as a hobo and try to figure all this shit out, then come back, bearded and wise, and hopefully by then I will have finally heard from God and gotten my vision. But if I go with option two, I can’t come back until I know I’m not a Robert Horn.


Part Three


My friend Darren and I just bought a joint off a guy we know in Wayne Hills, now we’re running around by the highway smoking it.

I’ve been waiting on a vision from God all day.

He took too long, so I got high instead.

“I’m hungry ,” Darren just said, he’s pulling out a bunch of crinkled up one dollar bills from his pocket.

He’s leading me to a gas station now.

I want an ICEE. Cheery flavored. No, blueberry.

I want a pretzel.

I want a vision from God or a pretzel.

The guy at the register knows we’re stoned, I can tell.

This may be paranoia, I can’t be sure.

I see cheese its.

     Cheese its. I want cheese its.

     “Darren,” I just said, “cheese its.”

Darren’s not listening, he’s looking at the corn chips.

     Fuck corn chips. We should get Cheese its.

Darren’s at the register, he’s buying a bag of corn chips, a two litter and beef jerky.

Evil, dry beef jerky

Evil, salty, hot beef jerky.

“Man, fuck beef jerky,” I just said, I put the cheese its on the counter. “Cheese its, man.”

“I can’t get all this, mother fucker,” said Darren.

I put the cheese its back, but I’m not happy about it. I hate beef jerky.

We’re out by the pumps now, I smell the stink of gas.

“Darren,” I just said, “I just realized something. We’re too deep in the shit. We can’t get out, we’re in the shit too deep, we have to kill ourselves. God’s not sending a vision! We have to kill ourselves.” He isn’t listening, he just passed me the two liter. It’s Mt. Dew. I hate Mt. Dew. “Man,” I just said, “you should have gotten Cheese its.”



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Modernist writer and poet.