July 18, 2023:
All the way from Alpine, just to go to high school. At least I can walk.
The kids all live in houses. White collar: managerial class, some professors, a few small business owners. In the whole infinite-seeming time of my incarceration in gifted programs there's only ever been one other kid from apartments, a beautiful girl named Ellen who plays guitar and sings like Joni Mitchell, and is just as out of my league.
They're all good kids. I mean that pejoratively. Kids who respect their parents, do their homework, and believe what they're told. There's only one other rebel, an ill-adept little thing who openly admits to her relationship with amphetamine, and is picked on by the others.
This is all largely moot. I spend most of my days at the beach, or doing drugs with bikers in O.B., or, increasingly, hanging with and learning from radical college students at UCSD. I'll put in appearances from time to time and from time to time try incompetently to have a girlfriend. But my hatred for the place is too extreme to successfully hide, at least not 100% of the time. Until eventually and with 100% certainty the administration's reciprocal hatred of me is bound to prevail.