Friday, March 18th, 6:49 P.M.
I heard back from Vierdestad today.
Dear
Mr. Shurtleff,
It
is our unfortunate duty to tell you…
Damn it.
Hato Shurtleff
Volume 11: Part 1- Moenia Prima: Wednesday, March 16th, 2:40 P.M.
Wednesday, March 16th, 2:40 P.M.
People at school started hearing
back from the colleges the applied to today.
Some people were disappointed with the replies they received. Some were pleased, not getting exactly what
they wanted but at least something good.
Others were nearly orgasmic. I
wish I was kidding. There were loud
screams of pure joy, people jumping around like a supercharged jumping bean,
and even people hyperventilating to the point that they passed out. And that was among the men.
One of the people who received news
today was Cam Sobe. This is the
offensive lineman who is as big as a refrigerator, has a head the size of a
cantaloupe that ate another cantaloupe, and who’s notable academic accomplishment
is one term getting a report card that spelt the word “FACBIFF”, if in fact
that is a word. Today Cam got word that
he was accepted to Dolore University, an accomplishment he couldn’t put into
words. Literally. He’s that fucking stupid.
This gave me hope for my application to Dolore
University. I mean, if a fat dumb
verbrecher like Cam can get it, surely I can, right? So, once school let out, I went straight home
and checked the mail. Among the junk
mail, credit card applications, bills, and lingerie catalogues Mom receives was
a letter from Dolore University. I tore
open the envelope and started reading the letter inside.
Dear Mr.
Shurtleff
It is out
unfortunate duty to tell you…
I didn’t read much further past
that. I don’t understand this. I have near perfect grades, participate in
several school clubs, and have as perfect of attendance as you can get. How did I not get in? How did I not get into Dolore and Cam did?
Still, I haven’t heard back from
Vierdestad or Moenia Prima yet, so there’s still hope. Hell, even if I don’t get into college, I can
still make a pretty penny writing term papers for Cam. I’m pretty sure he can’t play football if his
grades spell out the word “FFFFFFF”.
Later.
Hato Shurtleff
Volume 11: Part 1- Moenia Prima: Monday, January 24th, 3:33 P.M.
Monday, January 24th, 3:33 P.M.
My little circle of friends has been
growing recently. This isn’t a new
thing, it ebbs and flows as we start dating people then break up with
them. The difference now is that my
little circle is as big as it’s ever been.
Everyone has their own boyfriend or girlfriend that they bring along
when we go eat, when we go hang out, when we go piss off verbrecher shopkeepers
down the street, or whatever. Everyone
has their own person who they’ve added to the group. Everyone but me.
It’s not that I don’t want a
girlfriend, I’d very much like to have one.
It’s just that I don’t think anyone is interested in me. The verbrecher girls sure aren’t, being
revolted by anyone or anything opfer is practically bred into them. The opfer girls might be interested… if I
didn’t hang out with Sparra. That guy is
just so damn sexy. Any time I’m talking
with a girl I’m sort of interested in the topic inevitably turns toward
Sparra. Even when he’s not around, it’s
always Sparra Sparra Sparra.
Delany did offer to try to hook me
up with a girl from her Math class. She
said this girl would be perfect for me, but she didn’t offer up any reasons
why. The concept of Delany hooking me up
with girls would be great if I weren’t really into Delany. It’s hard listening to Delany describe a girl
in her class who I might be into without saying “I’m into you.”
Perhaps things will get better for
me romantically once I get into college.
I submitted my applications today to Dolore University, Vierdestad Tech,
and Moenia Prima Community College.
Dolore is kind of a long shot, I’m not really up for moving to Trebyer
anyway. I’ll probably get into
Vierdestad Tech anyway. Hopefully Sparra
and Delany will join me there. Wanda is
hoping and praying she’ll get into Community College, which is odd seeing as
she’s told me on several occasions how she REALLY wants to get out of this town.
Hopefully everything will go well
and I’ll be going to college this fall.
Maybe I’ll meet the girl of my dreams at college and we’ll have one of
those storybook romances they make movies out of. Not pornographic movies, real ones.
Later.
Hato Shurtleff
Volume 11: Part 1- Moenia Prima: Sunday, January 4th, 12:41 A.M.
Sunday, January 4th, 12:41 A.M.
There are two things that I can
count on from my parents every year on my birthday. One of them is an embarrassing party. I don’t mean embarrassing as in “Wow, this is
totally unexpected. This is all too
much. Thank you.” I mean embarrassing as in “What? You mean I have to go through this
again? And you invited my friends as
well? Gee, thanks.”
This is what I happened today. My Mom put the blindfold on me, led me to the
car, then let my Dad drive aimlessly for about an hour, all the while repeating
the phrase “No peeking.” This is all to
disorient me so that I don’t know where I’m going, despite the fact that I know
exactly where I’m going. It’s the same
place where we just held Sakoshi’s birthday: The Opfer Cultural Center next to
the mall.
At least my Dad gave me a good ride
this year. My Dad’s driving technique
involved him taking corners unexpectedly, zipping up hills and coasting down
the other side, and coming to firm fast stops.
I had fun, my Mom didn’t. Every
so often, my Mom would cry out, “Solanin, be careful. We don’t need to get in a crash on our way to
Hato’s party.”
To which my Dad responded, “Come on,
Belle, the kid’s having fun, right?”
My Mom started curing under her
breath, which caused me to say, “Dad, Mom’s cursing under her breath.” Then my Mom hit me hard on the head. She didn’t mean to hit me hard, Dad just
happened to take a corner at the same time that Mom was trying to playfully
strike me.
We got to the Cultural Center and
Mom led me into one of the ballrooms where everyone was trying to be
quiet. I know this because everyone was
saying “Shhh!”, which results in people making a lot of noise to get people to
stop making noise, which causes people to make a lot more noise to get people
to stop making noise, and so on, and so on, untill the noise in the room is
nearly deafening. Finally my Mom took
off my blindfold and the people exclaimed “Happy birthday Hato” at a volume
slightly lower than the shushing.
This year’s birthday party was about
the same as last year’s birthday party.
Same music, same food, same collection of family, friends, and
family. About the only difference
between this year and last year was the color of the streamers, red and gold as
opposed to green and orange. As I looked
around the ballroom, my Mom planted a kiss on my cheek and said, “So, what do
you think of your party?”
I lifted my arm and said, “They
misspelt the banner again.” I was
referring to the banner that hung overhead that read “Happy 18th
Birthday Shurtleff”. My parents use the
same banner for every birthday celebration.
All they have to do is change the number and it fits the situation. My Dad usually puts some comically large
number on the banner for my Mom’s birthday.
The only problem with this banner is the misspelling. We aren’t “Shurtlef’s”, we’re the
“Shurtleff’s”. People tend to forget the
double F’s at the end.
As the music started to ramp up, I
began to be showered with gifts. This
varied from music and movies from my friends, gift cards, and cash from my
younger relatives. After I unwrapped
every gift, I held it up and my Mom took a picture of me with it. Several of these pictures had to be retaken
because my mother caught my friends flashing what she thought were gang signs
in the background. My friends sure do
like to torture me.
The last present I opened was from
my parents, and in my mind I knew what it was.
Ever since I was eight years old, my parents have given me a journal for
my birthday, each titled “Journal (#)”.
This was my Dad’s idea. I don’t
know if it’s due to his work as an archivists or if it’s just something he’s
always been into, but my Dad is driven to have people document their
lives. What happens, where it happens,
when it happens, why it happens, and what they think about it. Receiving a journal is the other thing I can
count on from my parents every year on my birthday as a way to encourage me to
document my life. However, this year was
slightly different.
When I picked up the box the present
from my parents was in, I noticed it was smaller than normal. My first thought was that my parents had
noticed that I mainly use the journals they give me for doodling or writing bad
poetry. I opened the box and saw what
lay inside. It was a Hipster. A Hipster.
Not a knockoff, or Hipster Lite, a real, honest to God, 64GB
Hipster. I was elated.
The Hipster came packed with music,
mine and some my Dad’s been trying to get me into, as well as some
programs. There’s a radio program, a
news program, some game programs, and a program simply titled “Journal”. The Journal program is, oddly enough, a
program that allows you to maintain a journal.
So my parents did get me a journal for my birthday, they just got me a
different kind of journal. This was
confirmed to me when I read the inscription on the back of my Hipster. “Volume 11”.
After all the presents were opened
and I endured having to speak with many of my older family members who I only
have to endure once a year, my friends and I were permitted to bail on my
parent’s party in favor of some fun of my own.
I thanked my parents for the party and sincerely thanked them for the
Hipster. My Dad suggested I listen to
the Grandchester Meadows tracks that he put on my Hipster and I humored him by
saying that I would.
Sparra, Delany, Wanda, and I left
the party and went to our usual hangout, downtown. Not anywhere in particular downtown, just
downtown. We didn’t run into any
problems, outside of the verbrecher we like to antagonize by standing across
the street from his diner and drinking soda.
I know that’s something we shouldn’t do, but that guy shouldn’t be
aggravated with us just because we’re there.
I know that the verbrecher are in the majority, not just in numbers but
in what the control, but that doesn’t give them the right to stomp all over
us. What was I writing about? Oh yeah…
By the time my friends and I were
done having fun it was already well past nine.
We had to sneak home so that the cops wouldn’t catch us breaking curfew
and beat our asses and so our parents wouldn’t do the same. I think I did so successfully, except I swear
I woke up Sakoshi in the next room. I
bet he’s waiting just to tattle on me in the morning when Mom and Dad would be
both awake and conscious. I’ll have to
wake up early and make some of those pancakes he likes. Perhaps I can find a new pancake recipe on my
Hipster. I have to do something else on
this thing than listen to music and watch pornography.
Later.
Hato Shurtleff
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