i make nicknames up for classmates rather than participate in their conversations; (the now-infamous) herbal essences girl, tommy girl, bawston accent skank, ray fiennes lookalike, quiet indian girl. these five people were having conversation after conversation about every sort of inane subject...

i'm sure you can guess who was monopolizing the airtime. just guess.

driving to school that day, i took the long way which took me through wellesley. for those of you who are not from this uppity, snobby corner of the world, wellesley is where hillary clinton went to college. wellesley is an old-money, upper-crust, new england town. wellesley is the bastion of the "cultural elite" 'round these parts. upon entry into this town, my attitude changes.

i feel unwelcome, an interloper.

i'm surrounded by luxury sedans and graco car seats and country club elitism and v-neck sweaters and peacoats with scarves. the new beetle, the lincoln navigator, the pt cruiser. these are all ceremonial chariots of wellesley's status warriors. keeping up with the joneses. gps systems, projection instrument display panel, on-board entertainment. traveling circuses. getting to where you want to be is secondary to being seen getting there. cell phones smaller than hand grenades. pedestrians who never believe or fear that i will run them down without hesitation or remorse.

on days when you can't see your breath, people are busy intently walking their thoroughbred pedigree familiars.

purposefully.

there's a mansion i pass every other day in this shitpit of a town with a stately lawn the size of augusta. this lawn has become my prime target. it represents all that is wrong with this country. it represents ignorance and elitism and tyrranny and capitalism and all the other bad -isms. it represents this lousy town. it reeks of it.

about 2 or 3 miles back from the mansion there is a long stoplight that is wired to sense when people are running late and stay red only until they are finished loading their weapons. never after they get to use them. the type of light that would otherwise turn me mad with impatience. no more.

this has become the pissing light. car pissing is an art form. only the very select few can do it swiftly, quietly, and without hosing down the entire interior of the car.

first: select the proper receptacle. this is a matter of choice. my choice is gatorade. wide mouth, difficult to miss or spill, easy to cap off. second: find a suitable, well-planned spot. (the long stop light). third: find the ultimate deserving target to drench with a shower of hurtling bottled urine.

the mansion lawn.

snow banks have melted and piss has leaked onto the velvety grass. that grass is now brown velvety grass and i love that i sullied such a stately manor in the crudest and most unspeakable way.

when backed into a corner, a threatened animal will always lash out, maybe even piss in the face of that which corners it.

also: suds makes me happy. i hope she feels better very soon.