The first thing I need you all to know is that, in a very very broad, general sense, I hate you with a passion. I really mean that. Oh, it's not personal at all, in fact, it's the opposite, it's not i.e. that moment of pure rage when you go "I fucking HATE Fred's guts and I'm gonna bash his head in with a crowbar and anally rape his mother!"
Not that moment.
I don't want to understand this horror There's a weight in your eyes I can't admit Everybody ends up here in bottles With a nametag and last thing you wanted... As the world explodes we fall out of it ANd we can't let go because this will not go away...
Walked around my good intentions and found that there were none Blamed my father for the wasted years (We hardly talked) Never thought I would forget this hate And a phonecall made me realise I'm wrong... And if i don't make it know that i loved you all along just liked sunny days that we ignore because we're all dumb and jaded and i hope to god i figure out what's wrong...
And without any permission whatsoever, I now reprint the following:
A quote from Kittycat:
"It's that God guy. He is always messing with my gravity."
And now, two poems from the '99 Writer's Craft Literary Magazine (unreleased due to spelling errors):
On Growing Up
At first,
Counting the hours
then days then years.
Now,
having arrived (I haven't.)
wanting to crawl back again
early afternoons
when ideals were ideas.
This afternoon. They still are;
Not lost, or gone, (I promise.)
instead, hiding away at mindbacks
where we keep -- our not-so-lost hope
and years, days, can pass, or sometimes only hours.
-- Andrew Montgomery-Robb (TFS class of '99)
Account
We'd feared it since the first hints,
the fingers tightening into a fist.
And when we sat him down and gently
asked him to count back
from twenty, we never meant it
to be a countdown-
there should be plenty
of time for that. It was a litmus
for dementia or Alzheimer's.
I never meant it
to be mean, either, thought it must
have been humbling when I set the timer
and he stumbled
through the largest seven numbers--teen
years, the age when almost everything
was on the edge of happening. He paused
around twelve or eleven, resumed
at six, but in that panicked, odd
span of missing years, got to his feet and
walked our of the living room. Bliss
lit his face in the next, like he'd been
listening to music--oblivious
to our vexed attentions.
Then it was obvious
even to us
that dad was getting on
with his life
by getting over it.
-- Brian Wickers (TFS English teacher)
My favourite entries- along with Lacey and the green hippopotamus- and I find myself mourning once more. I hate everything and everyone (again, not individually- don't be so stuck up as to think this is about you, because it's not; it's about me.)
It looks like my plans are ruined, or at the very least, on hold. I hate being here. I wish I'd gone to Queens, or Western- somewhere without parents, without un-independance. Would I have come home often to visit? Doubtful; I'm a lazy slut, even at that best of times. But I was readythis year! I was motivated! I wanted to do well! I wanted to make them proud...
And now I can't wait to leave.
It's not fair! I'm trying now, goddammit! Isn't that what you wanted??
I give up. Again.
Readin'
Listenin' to
Thinkin' about
Most recently I was 
