Kiss of Broken Glass Read Online Free PDF Page A

?
    What if our real purpose on earth is
    something as simple as
    Have fun.
    Feel good.
    Be free.
    If it is, then 99.9% of all adults
    are failing miserably on this earth,
    and when they die they’ll probably
    be reincarnated as boring worker ants
    because that’s about all they’re good for.
    I almost feel sorry for Roger.
    Not because he’s going
    to be an ant in the next life,
    but because he really believes
    the crap he’s writing on the board.
    TOP THREE REASONS FOR HAVING GOALS:
    * Goals keep you focused
    * Goals give you purpose
    * Achieving Goals is something to celebrate
    He says it’s best to write your goals on paper
    and he hands us a yellow sheet and a felt-tip pen.
    I know I should play along and scribble something like:
    * Quit cutting
    * Get straight As
    * Join a club
    But that would be too easy.
    And then someone might expect me to do it.
    Besides, who can think about goals
    sitting six inches away from Jag’s lips?
    Those soft pink pillow puffs,
    dreamy as clouds and totally kissable.
    So that’s the first goal I write,
    in microscopic letters:
    Lock lips with Jag Mancuzzi,
    Then I notice Skylar
    looking even thinner
    after three peas for lunch
    and I scribble down another goal:
    Buy Skylar a jumbo burger.
    Finally Donya catches my eye,
    pretending to walk with a cane,
    like that’s how old I’ll be
    when I get out of Attaboys.
    So I smooth out my paper
    and write my last one:
    Blow this place!
    And Roger is right.
    It does feel good to have goals.
    Right up until the time
    he comes around and collects them.

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Waiting and More Waiting
    I wonder how long you can sit
    in a folding chair before your spine
    actually fuses to the metal.
    Or how many Nemos
    you can count on the wall
    before you want to bang
    your head against it.
    As much as I hate the idiotic
    group sessions, the time in
    between is even worse.
    It’s a million shades of boring.
    The only entertainment besides
    zoning out to Judge Judy reruns
    or watching Bullhorn pluck her lip hairs,
    is when we get a new arrival,
    like the little head case
    who rolls in right after group.
    He’s about the same age
    as my brother Sean.
    Eight. Maybe Nine.
    Supposedly, he jabbed
    his teacher with a pencil.
    But looking at him now,
    crumpled in a ball on the floor,
    he doesn’t seem dangerous to me.
    It’s makes me wonder,
    isn’t there something else
    for an eight-year-old?
    Like a ten-minute time-out,
    or no recess,
    or “Sorry, kid,
    you lose your lollipop.”
    Do they really have to Baker Act him?
    Seriously?
    And when he opens his mouth I realize
    he doesn’t even speak English
    because he’s all like
    “lo siento, lo siento, lo siento”
    but nobody’s listening
    to the little stabber
    no matter how many times
    he says he’s sorry.
    They try to lift him to his feet
    and he goes sort of wild,
    kicking and spinning,
    knocking Ding Dong’s
    sucker jar off the counter.
    The orderlies swoop in
    and loop this long white jacket
    around him until he looks
    like a caterpillar in a cocoon.
    When they cart him off,
    the only thing I can see
    are his tiny inchworm eyes
    crying out for help.
    And it makes me think:
    I don’t know why you
    stabbed your teacher, kid.
    But I sure hope you got her good.

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It’s Almost Time
    I’m staring out the window.
    Tapping on the glass.
    Trying to remember the last time
    I actually wanted to see my mother.
    Tap.
                Tap.
                            Tap.
    Nope.
    Nada.
    Nothing’s coming.

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Visiting Hour
    Okay.
    Maybe I shouldn’t have rolled my eyes
    at the very first question Mom