couldn’t see where the music was coming from but it was this weird old-school trancy drum-and-bass stuff with some girl singing in the background like she was getting drugged.
This tall skinny black dude called Tron was showing everyone this scab on his dick and he was laughing about it like it was something to be proud of. He wore a fur coat and kept opening it up and dropping these fake leather pants down to his ankles and going “You see it right? Look at that shit yo!”
Branson kept asking everyone if they’d seen Easy Elise and nobody had but some kid wearing a chef’s hat said he’d heard she was in the hospital because she donated blood at the blood bank and fainted but then someone else said that that wasn’t Easy Elise that it was this other girl called Sky so Branson said “I’m out” and we left.
While we were waiting for a walk sign Branson told me how he had a room at Washington House and how the top bunk was open because his boy Tom-Tom just got caught selling digital cameras out of the back of a U-Haul and how Tom-Tom got sent to some juvy home in Corvallis where they put a computer chip in your arm.
So the really weird part that relates to what just happened outside with that old black woman in the shower cap is that at first Branson thought I was a girl too. No shit P even though he wanted to fight me. He said he thought I was some dykey butch chick from Eugene who was trying to act tough and I was like “You’d fight a girl?” and he said he’d fight a dyke any day of the week because of the fact that he got beat up by some deejay lesbian skeezer called Chocolate Yoda a few weeks before after he tried to steal some of her old Cypress Hill records. He said she was like six feet tall and punched harder than his father.
Me and Branson spent like four days hanging together before he found out I have a dick. It was fucked up too because I woke up in the middle of the night with him trying to go down my pants like he was intending to finger me in my sleep or something. I kicked him so hard I almost knocked his jaw off.
“I thought you was a bitch!” he cried holding his face.
He washed his hand in the sink like nine times in a row. I think he even put toothpaste on it.
P it’s not like I WANT to look like I do. I wish I could grow some whiskers or have a scar over my eye. I’ve even thought about cutting myself I really have just like an inch-long slit over my right eye or across my cheek because that might help me look more manly or less soft or whatever.
By the way when did you start shaving? Were you my age or did you have to wait? Puberty is like mad skipping me over. I can’t wait to start becoming a man P I swear. And I’m almost positive I’m not a homosexual like you and Jorge.
“You’d be a pretty bitch you really would” Branson said a few days after he tried going down my pants. He was smoking on the steps to the YWCA. “Them old west-side sweeties would love you.” He was talking about this group of senior citizen perverts who hang out on the west side and play dominoes and this Korean poker game called Thirteen. “Those light-ass eyes of yours. Your silver hair.” I said “It’s not silver it’s blond” but he was like “That shit is mad silver!”
You couldn’t imagine Branson being from Waldo Ohio. He seemed like he grew up on the streets of New York City or in some gang in Chicago. I figure he just watched a lot of rap videos or visited the right websites or something.
Once I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. “Grow up?” he said. “I ain’t never gonna grow up. I’m like one of them donkey dudes in Pinocchio.”
Regarding my prettiness what’s weird is that my hair wasn’t even long when I arrived in Portland. My Buckner high-and-tight had just started to grow out and Branson STILL thought I was a fucking girl. I dyed my hair black a week later. Fat Larkin’s girlfriend helped me do it. Her name was Shurl and she had this little
This tall skinny black dude called Tron was showing everyone this scab on his dick and he was laughing about it like it was something to be proud of. He wore a fur coat and kept opening it up and dropping these fake leather pants down to his ankles and going “You see it right? Look at that shit yo!”
Branson kept asking everyone if they’d seen Easy Elise and nobody had but some kid wearing a chef’s hat said he’d heard she was in the hospital because she donated blood at the blood bank and fainted but then someone else said that that wasn’t Easy Elise that it was this other girl called Sky so Branson said “I’m out” and we left.
While we were waiting for a walk sign Branson told me how he had a room at Washington House and how the top bunk was open because his boy Tom-Tom just got caught selling digital cameras out of the back of a U-Haul and how Tom-Tom got sent to some juvy home in Corvallis where they put a computer chip in your arm.
So the really weird part that relates to what just happened outside with that old black woman in the shower cap is that at first Branson thought I was a girl too. No shit P even though he wanted to fight me. He said he thought I was some dykey butch chick from Eugene who was trying to act tough and I was like “You’d fight a girl?” and he said he’d fight a dyke any day of the week because of the fact that he got beat up by some deejay lesbian skeezer called Chocolate Yoda a few weeks before after he tried to steal some of her old Cypress Hill records. He said she was like six feet tall and punched harder than his father.
Me and Branson spent like four days hanging together before he found out I have a dick. It was fucked up too because I woke up in the middle of the night with him trying to go down my pants like he was intending to finger me in my sleep or something. I kicked him so hard I almost knocked his jaw off.
“I thought you was a bitch!” he cried holding his face.
He washed his hand in the sink like nine times in a row. I think he even put toothpaste on it.
P it’s not like I WANT to look like I do. I wish I could grow some whiskers or have a scar over my eye. I’ve even thought about cutting myself I really have just like an inch-long slit over my right eye or across my cheek because that might help me look more manly or less soft or whatever.
By the way when did you start shaving? Were you my age or did you have to wait? Puberty is like mad skipping me over. I can’t wait to start becoming a man P I swear. And I’m almost positive I’m not a homosexual like you and Jorge.
“You’d be a pretty bitch you really would” Branson said a few days after he tried going down my pants. He was smoking on the steps to the YWCA. “Them old west-side sweeties would love you.” He was talking about this group of senior citizen perverts who hang out on the west side and play dominoes and this Korean poker game called Thirteen. “Those light-ass eyes of yours. Your silver hair.” I said “It’s not silver it’s blond” but he was like “That shit is mad silver!”
You couldn’t imagine Branson being from Waldo Ohio. He seemed like he grew up on the streets of New York City or in some gang in Chicago. I figure he just watched a lot of rap videos or visited the right websites or something.
Once I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. “Grow up?” he said. “I ain’t never gonna grow up. I’m like one of them donkey dudes in Pinocchio.”
Regarding my prettiness what’s weird is that my hair wasn’t even long when I arrived in Portland. My Buckner high-and-tight had just started to grow out and Branson STILL thought I was a fucking girl. I dyed my hair black a week later. Fat Larkin’s girlfriend helped me do it. Her name was Shurl and she had this little
Similar Books
