March 15, 2018:
No there were good people too.
Nasty Debbie, who gave me The Idiot and saved my brain.
Beautiful Cynthia shining with golden light, who informed me with great kindness that a medication called tetracycline would treat the congenital cystic acne inherited from my Native American ancestors.
A very kind art teacher who encouraged, despite my embarrassment. She was patient, supportive, generous. A stand-out in every way from the herd of disinterested mediocrities employed at that time by the San Diego City Schools.
There were the special ed kids. The only ones I'd go to physical battle for. When they were bullied by jocks or taunted by the herd of disinterested mediocrities attending at that time the San Diego City Schools.
There was a foxy girlfriend, whose lips were soft and who let me feel her beautiful tits whenever I wanted, which was basically always. Who jerked me off and let me finger her when we were infrequently able to be alone. Along with typing, the only education I received there worth anything in later life.
A teacher, I think he was a Sociology teacher, who was the first adult to ever ask who I was. What I wanted, what I cared about.
A custodian who'd been jailed for draft-resistance. He went to prison instead of Vietnam. I respected him more than any other person, period. Hands down.
My stoner friend who kept me high on bad pot and worse amphetamines, the cheap white uppers cooked by Hells Angels in the desert somewhere. Those, and occasionally weak acid tabs when she could get them. I don't remember ever paying. Until recently the secret to my drug life: girls got me high.
The surfers' girlfriends I'd hit on and sometimes get lucky with while their idiot boyfriends left them bored on the beach doing their idiot surfer dude thing. Where "lucky" meant kisses and feels behind the taco truck. But that was off-campus, which, strictly speaking, doesn't count.
There were nice kids but they were not — I dunno what a kind word might be — relevant. I'd occasionally go to their parties but hid the majority of my real life. For example almost no-one knew I was frequently high, just as in later life almost no-one knew of my struggle with depression. They were never part of my inner life, even when they probably imagined they were.
It's a longer list than I've remembered. I'm grateful now to each of them.