A Teenage Adventure!

It was surreal that someone from the “in” crowd found me cool enough to acknowledge my presence in the visible, stratified school social structure that I was currently trapped in. “So, what kind of music do you listen to Joshua?”, was the next line that followed the greeting pleasantries. My fading glee was quickly replaced with clammy anxiety. The ice-breaker, the measure of compatibility, the thousand and one psychological analysis teenagers come up with according to the varied replies, alas, the polite but disappointed dragged “okaaaayyyy” response that usually ended the conversation instantly when I gave my honest answer. “Errr… The Mr Bean opening theme?”, I quipped jokingly, stalling for time to recall the in-trend bands of the given time. “Haw Haw… Cmon seriously muddafucker!”, he persisted as my mind raced to come up with something credible to quote.
“It definitely has to be The Killers, especially their latest single, Mr Brightside”, I tried my luck, getting ready to wince at the impact of realization that I made a wrong move.
“Awesome dude! I thought you would say something gay like Simple Plan!” I hid a sigh of relief and smiled politely, feeling guilty partly because I lied and mostly due to the truth that Simple Plan was indeed on repeat in my discman. Additionally, I condemned the use of homosexual references to depict something as inferior, but I continued to talk to him anyway. Hey, I’m a teenager.

The polyphonic tunes of my favorite pop-punk band alerted me to a call coming through. It was the one love of my life whom I cherished as much as my naïve, teenage heart can. The only trouble was, she does not know of it, 2 years as “best friends”, superficially platonic on my part, purely so on hers. I am her sugar daddy minus the groping benefits, I am her unwilling emotional crutch in all the past relationships, feeding on scraps of cuddles and hugs, I am her biggest and longest serving secret admirer, heck, I am her “Platomon”. A term I had coined myself to add a certain amount of humor to the pathetic romantic plight I am perennially in. Platonic Pokemon in full, lending to it the suggestion of caged pet enslaved by its own over-reliance on its owner for food, unable to escape even if there was a chance to do so. Now, substitute food with emotional fulfillment, however warped and one-sided and the clear mental picture of the relationship is projected.

Lengthy shit, Well, she called to say that she felt like some Billy Bomber’s, so I happily obliged, strangely, influenced by some muddled emotional impulse, a mix between happiness and the hammering on my conscience of the unhealthy covert obsession I had on this single girl. But-oh-how beautiful she was. Damn. There goes at least, 30 dollars in American-sized western food.

With every reason to be depressed, I moped around before deciding on some Neopets to cheer myself up with. I was in my element, for a few hours at least, invincible and a multi-millionaire, I’d be able to get Neo-hos anytime I wished to. Unfortunately, I’m just making things up, what the fuck are “Neo-hos” anyway? I laughed at the absurdity of my self-sought consolation to the bleak scenario I was in. Then I moped again.

The next morning saw the usual early train commuters witnessing my listless trudge to school. “I’m sorry, I can’t be perfect…”, the lyrics or my heart, I couldn’t tell, sang to the uncaring world, in the best-sounding nasal voice ever. Sparked perhaps by the presence of a guy in my school who would come close to being called a “jock”, to quote American media, in the same cabin. He looked like what I would want to be, good-looking, athletic build, healthy tan, great hair… I trail off here to consciously dream of the stuff I would do if I were him. I stopped to hold back a hopeless tear, Curse genes and their physical pre-sets.

(to be continued)