September 21, 2018:

Gack, the fucks.

Some matronly crone. Ripped a comb through my hair, without so much as a by-your-leave.

For years I'd avoided photo day. Thankfully there are pretty much no school photos of your author until they finally bagged me in twelfth grade.

I'd like to say I tore the comb from her hand and broke it in half. I suppose if I'd been on different drugs it's possible there could have been more aggression. As it was I was tripping balls, so that the entire experience was partly surreal, partly irrelevant. It wasn't till later that I regretted turning up that day.

The depression is clear. Valiant attempt to hide behind my hair, defeated by the combs of crones. Granny glasses, pre-contacts. No hint of smile, no hint of emotion one way or another. I remember the feel of that shirt, it was coarse fabric against skin. Mostly I look confused, which I certainly was. While leaving the chair I took revenge on the crones by deliberately turning the wrong way and smashing the fill light on the floor. Fuck 'em.

"Lorrie was a trippy girl." Yups. We'd been down to Modoc Street first thing to buy two tabs. My eyes look like I'm not particularly present, 'cos I really wasn't.

There were more pics that day which I was unable to avoid. Yearbook snaps from the clubs. I dunno why I ever participated in those. I was otherwise all about boycotting public education.