He is a fucking punk.

And he sings.

Mass starvation

Contaminated water

Destroyed cities

Mutilated bodies

I’ll kill myself

I’d rather die

If you could see the future

You’d know why.

It’s hot in George’s attic room. All summer long he wakes up sweating. Today he wakes up sweating and screaming, having dreamed the El Camino running him over.

He sits on the edge of the bed, sweat coating his scalp under his long hair and running from his pits and down his sides, soaking the seat of his Fruit of the Looms. He gets up and goes to the mirror over his desk and looks at the scrapes running from his jaw down the left side of his neck.

When he and Andy came home yesterday he told their folks he pulled an endo on a jump at the firebreak. His dad asked if his bike was in one piece while his mom cleaned the cuts with hydrogen peroxide. Andy had gone straight to his room.

You don’t want Andy around when you’re lying to mom and dad. Little spaz gets restless and starts talking too much and fucks it up.

But it wasn’t a big deal. Mom was relieved it was nothing that required a trip to the emergency room. Dad was satisfied that the bike wasn’t messed up. But he gave one of his speeches: Got to value the things money buys, the hard work that goes into making that money. You’ll need that. You’re not gonna be getting a scholarship anywhere like your little brother, you’re gonna be working for a living. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with you. That’s the way it is. Life’s not fair. Sooner you learn the truth that work sucks and working for someone else sucks even worse, the better. Got to put value on what you earn when you hate doing what you have to do to get it.