I have always wished for my computer to be as easy to use as my telephone; my wish has come true because I can no longer figure out how to use my telephone...
Phone Number *** - **** 3920
Birthday03 May 1967
Address W 6th St No: 3920
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The fourth night I sway on stage in the school play is the night before I'll wait in the hospital lobby while my parents sign me over to the doctors. It's also the final night of the show, the cast party. It's at your house and your parents have it catered. Piles of white plates are stacked throughout the house. It's hard to stand without fainting and people keep approaching me with full and helpful plates. We all know why I have an early curfew tonight. You're down in the basement with your drum set barricading you from the rest of us. When I finally get down there, I can't talk to you over the snare drum tantrum. Before I tried out for the play, you helped me practice my lines, winked while the curtain first rose. You've sat on the library steps for an hour watching me nibble on a banana and when Tony Morales called me a slut, it was you who held his face in the sink until he took it back. I'm not used to being afraid while in the same room as you. So when my right arm prickles and then numbs and my chest all of a sudden feels like it's splintering, like inside some man is throwing his shoulder against a door again and again, I stick my hand out, across the face of the drum, and say Please don't tell anyone but something's wrong with me and you hustle me into your father's office, call my parents and wait with your hand pressed to my breast bone. You promise to visit me in the hospital and I'll be strapped to the metal bed before I wonder whether your mom will drive you or you'll take the bus. Right now, I sit in the swivel chair, watching you summon my parents and I'm thinking about how grown up and wise you are, how much older than me you are. You are six months older. You're not even old enough to drive.