We live above a laundromat but the nice heat and fresh-hotel-linen smells coming out the vents go down the sewer instead of reaching us. Turning the key in the lock made me wince and wincing made my broken teeth hurt. You know how in the comics the hero can normly always stop a train, whether it’s by brute strong-ness or a sticky web? And the only reason he gets injured is ’cause of his one weakness? Something musta been letting my one weakness through, ’cause I couldn’t stop the train that slammed into my head. ‘-getting a belt to try that thing you told me about where you hang yourself and you jack a masty at the same time and. If that was his superhero costume, it was dooooope. He’d drawed bones on his knuckles and tribal tats all up his arms with a black vivid pen.
Ricky had on this black singlet and it made him look real hard, like a sheep shearer or something. The whole school’d gone home ages ago and the sun was all diluted like how Dad makes powdered juice ’cause we can’t afford juice with pulp in it. That’s another vocab word I’ve gotta learn, else they might expel me, bro. He only had two other dudes there-this tall, really black dude from Ethiopia that’s in my PE class and is real dope at long jump, and this short white dude with studs in his ears and freckles whose face looks like he’s got a bee trapped inside his mouth, like he’s all flinchy and aggro.
-poster.jpg "what is my secret identity")
I stopped thinking about what Dad was up to as soon as I saw Ricky Brown. The dumpsters blocked out the hills with snobby houses looking down on us. We were at the bottom of the world, where all the dirty bath water drained to.
There was a secret gap between two of the dumpsters and when you got in, there was this whole pit surrounded by big tall steel bins and piles of old, soggy wooden pallets. I sprinted all the way down the road, through traffic, into school all the way to the dumpster dump, that’s this secret area behind the Mongol block where all the Down Syndromes moan and stumble around. That’s one of the words on my spelling list. We don’t keep secrets in this house, we don’t deceive. The fuck was he doing with his overalls undone? When he turned to look at me, he looked like JFK’s bitch in that clip we watched in social studies, when she’s all worried and panicky and trying to push the brains back inside her man’s head. It was a poster of a hot woman in a bikini with big, glowing, liony hair, G. His overalls were peeled down, the straps hung around his feet like giant shoelaces. I found Dad kneeling at the foot of his bed with this whole big life-sized poster in front of him.
#What is my secret identity windows
My breath was blue and the windows were dribbling. I walked into Dad’s bedroom to score one of his belts to take to my audition for the Taxmans. I will meet and interact with you there: The post is called Mapped Out.Īnd as long as you are there, make sure you subscribe to Jennifer’s RSS Feed, follow her on Twitter, and Like her Facebook page.It was the dud end of the afternoon. In it, I also reveal the grand goal for my life. It explains a little bit about my past, and what happened to me in Dallas, and why I write. She has put up my post today, and I would love for you to go on over and check it out.
#What is my secret identity series
She is posting a fantastic series on Identity, and I have the privilege of being one of the Guest Bloggers in this series. So a small glimpse will have to suffice for now.Īnd to help me unmask this small part of my secret identity, I am imposing on the friendship of another blogger, Jennifer Luitwieler. I cannot share everything, since that is too painful, and too terrifying. The part of me that stays hidden and locked away. The part of me that is scared to come out. The part of me that I am often ashamed of. Instead, my secret identity is the part of me that most people don’t know. No, it is not that I have an alias, or am a top-secret spy from a government agency. Did you know I have a secret identity? Well, I do.Īnd I’m about to let you get a glimpse of who I really am.
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