I’m the type of person who’s horribly misunderstood. Sure, my parents are Barbie and male-Barbie Carson. Sure, I burned down my entire school. But neither of those things are my fault! And even if they were, we all have minor fuck ups sometimes. My parents’s minor fuck up was me. My sister’s was blabbing her life to the internet. My brother’s entire existence is pretty much a fuck up. So, who can blame me?
Ok, I know what you’re thinking. Bla bla bla sob story bla bla-- wait you burned down your school? And yeah, that’s real typical of you. How judgemental. To be specific I blew up my school. I set the fire too close to the furnace, and it exploded. Whoopsies. Everyone in that section of the building could have died. Wow, I’m really not doing myself any favors here, am I?
I’m going to start from the beginning. Because, you see, it really wasn’t my fault. I swear. At about 4 pm on the night of the fire, I was really stressed out. Like mega stressed out. Which is what happens when you procrastinate your thesis paper until the night before it’s due. It was legitimately a 50 page paper. And I suppose you could say that this whole story was just a poor attempt to get out of it. Although now that I think about it, poor is a bad adjective, because it did work. So I guess you could say it was all my law teacher’s fault.
I was kind of backed into a corner at that particular point in time. So I did the only thing a sane person would - I went down into the basement to smoke some weed. I know, I know, the basement is a bad place to smoke weed. Whatever, I’ve heard it before. And I’m there, finally not stressed af (which stands for as fuck, for all you uneducated people out there), when the damn janitor comes in. Now, I’m not saying that I don’t like the janitor. Kids here are really mean to him (and when I say really mean, I mean leaving messes in places that are hard to clean. One unnamed brother of mine almost set the dorm on fire and forced the janitor to take the blame. Which is kinda what I’m doing right now), and despite that he seems like a chill guy.
But do you know what was NOT chill? Sneaking up on me while I was lighting a bud. So of course, I drop the bud, and run away, and he chases after me. At this point, I probably should mention that I was using matches (which I dropped as well, hence the fire), because he-who-must-not-be-named aka my brother dear Yves Carson, had asked to borrow my lighter the day before. Thanks a lot Yves. So I was running out of the building as fast as possible and the match was lighting the basement on fire. Not suspicious at all.
Of course, our dumbass school didn’t catch me. And the janitor didn’t tell on me (thanks dude, I owe you), although that might have been because he doesn’t speak a lick of English. And I would have gotten off scot-free.
So why did I tell, you ask, even if I knew, from aforementioned law professor, that arson is based on intention? That’s just something you’re going to have to figure out.
I’m back, Buena Vista. And better than ever.
