egg1291

School was something else; my teachers told me I was surprisingly smart for a kid who lives in a buffet. But I didn’t like school very much, it wasn’t for me. The stuff they taught us, it was all in books. The French revolution, the American revolution, the industrial revolution, I could learn all that in a simple history book, but how to love or show emotion or dismantle a bomb on the seventy third floor of the Sears Tower, well that was something else. I got my homework done on the bus mostly, and in school or home, in that case work, I wrote. I wrote poems. I wrote stories. I wrote everything. I wrote and I schemed, I was a machine. I just planned, and planned. I think the idea to destroy something so big and beautiful and precious as the world’s biggest skyscraper came to me around fourteen. We had a whole week were we talked about 9/11 and it was ridiculous. I mean I get it and all, most people don’t, but why. Informing kids with this pointless information is like feeding chocolate to a dog, they were making us blind. They told us it was a terrorist attack and it was about oil or religion or politics. But I don’t want to get into that, because I’m not a terrorist, and I’m not at war. I mean technically we are all at war, with ourselves. But I wasn’t fighting for Allah or Bush. I was just the rejected son of the pointless butt fucking, which was the twenty first century.

But back to school, I knew I was going to leave as soon as I had the money, and my expulsion came just in time. I got expelled with fifteen minutes left in school, and I mean that literally. I had one class to finish and then graduation, school ends at 3:25, I was sent to the office at 2:59, at 3:10 I was expelled. It had to be a joke or something. I didn’t care, but it’s just hard to see something expire on you after you’ve put four years into it.
On a back of a math assignment I turned it, I drew the bomb I was designing, it was an original creation. I figured it all out myself, it wasn’t like I was recreating someone’s bomb, this was mine. My design, my data, my creation; it was quit the bomb too. I should have got granted something for this work of art, instead I was expelled. When he told me to explain this, I told him how plastic burns and it gives off that nauseating smell, well there was several animal parts involved in creating plastic, like horns mostly, and when they burn they give of this concentrate, kind of like the acidic concentrate in orange juice, except this neutralizes gutta percha, which is basically sap. With all those being deformed from heat, you can separate shellac, which is like the secretions of tiny insects, and without shellac you have gutta and the horns. With enough heat, like of a large steam engine, you can turn the gutta into a gas, and the acidic leftovers of the horns eventually turn into this sticky material, kind of like glue. You can use the gas gutta to separate ethylene and propylene, it’s usually done with high temperatures but for sake of a small compact bomb, I needed a quick division of the matter. And with those split, they are highly flammable if not deadly explosive, and that’s why some shitty plastic cracks, and if you try to burn it, it will actually catch on fire and eventually explode. You can do it yourself, just stick a shitty piece of plastic in the microwave. Now they create plastic with almost no ethylene or propylene to overwhelm the gutta to make sure the bond doesn’t brake. But anyways, with that kind of explosion created, you can use your imagination to pretty much create any kind of bomb. Any small explosive would be amplified by a whole lot with this deadly gas mix. The principle said he won’t call the cops if I left he him the direction to my bomb. Turns out he was a pyromaniac and he was more fascinated with this then I was. A few years later I read in the paper how school principle from Las Vegas died in a tragic death trying to create a gutta bomb; it’s what they call it now, my beautiful creation, monopolized. No one has created one successfully since they were discovered, but Principle Hawks was named genius in the creation of a lethal weapon.

But life on my own, it was the start of something great. I had my whole life ahead of me, and I set myself to achieve one crummy goal, one destructive goal. The aftermath of my action, will be a slow time bomb, a catalyst, to something bigger than myself. But now, my life was at the breast reduction clinic, fast forward forty two days and I’m on top of the world, not metaphorically speaking. You know you’ve fucked up when the crisis negotiator is screaming through a steel wall. In fifteen minutes it will all end, but to understand it all you have to go back forty two days, back to when it all started, back to Leslie Shaw’s breast cancer.