One of those days – you’ve had a bunch of them – don’t know what it’s about; life that is. Feel like it’s one big out-of-body experience. Eleventh grade is an eternity – snails move faster. You would like to go to sleep, like for the next six months. Everybody’s having fun – you aren’t.
All you do is homework and dishes – no love in your life, not even a sideways stare. You need a job but singing telegrams aren’t big anymore. Maybe delivering newspapers – no. Gotta get up at four in the morning for that – you have a hard time getting up at 6 – besides, you don’t know any girls who deliver newspapers. Girls wait on tables and creepy guys ask why you don’t smile more often. Girls work in department stores and try not to laugh when fossils try on clothes that will never fit them – and look worse when they do. All that hairspray and superiority. Or work in an office – typing for the rest of your life.
Big mystery, this thing called life – you’re right in the middle of it. Homework and wrong numbers – coffee and a cigarette; that would be heaven. Your mom isn’t taking diet pills anymore – you miss them. You really wish you had somebody to talk to – okay; your girlfriends, but they nod their heads and go “oh yeah, me too”. Everybody’s in the same boat. No, you want a boyfriend – you’re too fat for a boyfriend. Why do they call them “love handles”? There’s nothing lovely about them – you just want to lie in bed next to a warm body – hold hands – feel like somebody likes you for you. Have conversations about why you like Dawn and the color the sky turns when it gets light out – you both read books – he knows who Judith Krantz is. Knows that weekends are made for Michelob. You wished you looked older – you look like you’re twelve. A fat twelve year old who can’t fake being 21 if you’re life depended on it. You wish you could read minds, or at least find someone to tell you the future.
But no – you’re stuck in Typing class; your fifth letter to Mr. Brown at the Anywhere Manufacturing Company. There is no Mr. Brown – and if there was, why would he read anything you wrote? You hate your hair – maybe if you cut it all off like Sinead O’Connor? You can’t quite picture yourself with a fuzzy head – you’d be all nose. You wish they played music in Typing Class. Maybe it will be three o’clock soon. Why do people look strange? Maybe if you had a Walkman . . . . ?
And while you’re waiting for life to change – an hour’s worth of KRLA during their Oldies Phase – with The Real Don Steele from September 18, 1985.
