/lit/ - Literature

Guys, how do I make her like me? Or love me? Ps no one likes me or loves me even though I'm pretty amazing.

Is it just me or does philosophy suck arse?

When I was thirteen years old the headteacher convinced my parents to have me jump up a class and be a boarding student because I was doing so well academically. That is when it all started to go change for me.

By a month of being so a abruptly promoted to the mysterious world of seventh grade, I had already started smoking cigarettes and trading erotic newspaper cutouts for stationary and food. Tie loosened, shirt untucked and hair spiked heavenwards, I was slowly making way towards the romantic world of puberty and substance abuse.
But it wasn't until after the summer vacation that I started to cut. It began with an obligatory reply to a girls letter that said "you are my life" in cursive writing she has written with her blood from her fingers with the infamous paper cutter that was going around the class. The first time was quite hard, but since my friends encouraged on I managed to engrave a rough I LOVE YOU, and a heart sign that was quite difficult and...ink consuming because it was not just outline but filled. That heart became quite dark later, which I boasted around proudly was what my real one was turning to. She went home and I went dorm, where I was in the usual referee team I in a violent wrestling match. I was feeling good. I rarely participated in the fights because nobody really wanted me to and when I did I gave up in like 5 seconds or made weird rules like no punching. I was happy being a good referee and a passionate cheerer of the underdog or a close friend. This continued for many years and the game evolved a lot, one of which was punching each other's arms, numbing arms of everyone in the dorm for life.

A few of us practiced wall punching, which quickly evolved to wall rubbing. Here we rubbed our knuckles and joints against a rough wall until it bled and the white bones inside showed through. I excelled in this particular field and all ten of my fingers were properly injured.

Scratching with compass tips was a popular thing and I had a few myself, little knowing that the marks were there for life. It was usually symbols, initials or a rock band/song title. It only god serious when two of us really started to cut. Starting with lots of little cuts to write something, we challenged each other for deeper cuts and more blood. After a while there were cigarette burns and cuts all over our body, arms, legs, chest, stomach, head, everywhere that could be covered during class. We picked up a hoarse accent, talked very little, bullied and were huge Nirvana fans. In he meantime the cuts got bigger and bigger, with no symbols, and we were using the more effective razor blades by this time. We also shaved daily.
Before long we got into alcohol. At this point I might have to disclose to the reader that it was one of the most violent schools full of spoiled kids, and the rich upper graders frequently beat any warden so it was basically a guy that controlled the lower graders and ignored everyone else, in charge of the whole thing.