“Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans - born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace.”
- John F. Kennedy

We live in a society where people can't enter or leave. Everyone is stuck in a revolving door of activities and people. There are few, the lucky ones who venture out into the world- to only get stuck back into where they started. It was a town that was filled with the filthy rich, and in other areas the middle class. The division lines were sharp. And everyone knew their place because they did things very differently on the other side.

It was a scorching summer afternoon in the final week of June. Schools had been let out, which lead to basic skirts and blazers pushed under the bed until September. Girls with brightly colored dresses and boys with polos roamed the minimal streets. Others stole their parents’ cars and drove to the beach. They didn’t care that it was illegal for them to drive. It was the golden age to be teenaged. Rules could be bent, and no one would care. In the 8th most educated county in the U.S. the kids were quite naïve and dumb.

I sat in my room staring at him. He was helping the UHAUL men carry boxes the house. His pale blue button down rolled up to elbows and his khaki pants fitted perfectly. I hated him immediately. He was the normal Greenwich boy. The last thing I wanted to do was introduce myself. Though he was attractive, I would not get involved with someone like that. After high school I will break the revolving door, and I will go out and find someone less basic, or at least that was the plan. Although a bad past could follow a person, eventually their tracks will grow too far away to trace them back to the origin. But creating your own trail is hard when your path was already made up for you.

A pillow on the window seat fell to the floor with a quiet thud, causing me to lose my train of thought. I blinked twice and looked back out the window; the glass reflecting a larger version of my face. He was still carrying boxes, but this time he looked more at ease, almost smug. I wondered why he looked that way; I swear he winked at me.

I did a game I played to pass the time. Since people were all the same to me- I tried to fit the name to the face. From his looks and personality he was a James or Charles, but from his winking he was a Collin or Brett. Why I wasted my time on him was astounding. People waste time when there is serious to think about. I still wonder what that serious thing was. A summer assignment, a party, a lawsuit against me. I may never know, but with age comes wisdom.

Two ambassadors and their daughter owned the house the boxes were getting moved into. She was the queen of typical Greenwich. They often travelled, which left her at the house alone during her high school years to be reckless, but she never did any of that. She hadn’t been back since she graduated eight years ago. Even though, no one lived in their house and I’ve never seen a maintenance worker there, their grass was pristinely kept, and remarkably green, despite the little rain that spring. It was strange because usually in Greenwich knew everyone’s business, but no one knew anything about what happens to the house when they are gone.
Greenwich was a rather large town, where everything was determined on how you look, how nicely painted your house was, and how many priceless paintings sat in your foyer. I found the whole hierarchy to be unbalances, so I stayed away. Due to my “departure” I was left at the bottom of the food chain. I had no problem with being alone. Kurt Cobain would lock himself in the closet to write alone, but that may’ve just been to get away from Courtney Love. Solitude is only bad for people who are desperate to love. Love is an epidemic without a cure, so it’s contagious. That’s why everyone hates to be alone. They caught the plague and they can’t get rid of it. The poor souls. The people who hate solitude are the ones who need someone to hold them to keep them safe. They turn weak and/ or read too many Jane Austen novels; stuck in a fantasy that someone will sweep you off your feet. Though well written, it is unlikely to be the case. Especially when all of the sweepers of feet are players who only want to use you.
Girls in Greenwich are set into factions: the popular preps, the sporty preps, the artsy preps, the smart preps, the drama preps, and me. I disregard their preppy lifestyle of complete preppiness. They ignore me; I was not sure whether it was under their own jurisdiction or their parents’ to stay away. But nevertheless they ignored me, considering me more as a diseased swine than a being. They all thought it bothered me, and would be my point of finally breaking down.

Agateophobia- Fear of insanity.


“Brenda is going to drop off a muffin basket. Can you give them to the people down the street?” My father asked. I rolled my eyes, he already knew my answer.

“How about Brenda, your loyal secretary who will do anything for you, your money, or your love does it. She wouldn’t do anything to this precious muffin basket. I have better things t do, and you said that, “I scare away people” So go back to wo-“

“What kind of better things o you have to do? Get high in the bathroom, so it is a pain for Gladys to get rid of the smell. Go over there and give the muffin basket!” My father thought very little of me at the time.
Right as I hung up Brenda rang the doorbell twice. Her blond bob hit her shoulder; she tightly smiled as I opened the door. “Georgina! You look very … naked. I looked from my vintage tank top and distressed short shorts to Brenda’s white collared blouse and skirt that hit just below her knees. He truly did make me feel naked. “Here is your muffin basket. Your father and I will be in Washington all next week. You won’t be seeing much of him.” I already didn’t see much of him. The only love my father got he paid for. He didn’t want me, and I didn’t want to be around someone who didn’t want to be around me.

Brenda thrusted the basket into my chest and began to ramble on about her ex-boyfriend Steve who cheated on her with the pizza delivery guy from the strip mall. I always saw it coming. It didn’t bother Brenda that he was chatting on her with another man, but it bothered her because the pizza deliveryman has bigger breasts than her. After another 5 minutes of Brenda speaking, it went from funny to sad. I slammed the door in her face. Brenda gave me a pissed off look and I laugh at her. Brenda walks away and slams her can door shut as she slides her skinny self in. I look at the muffin basket. Let me just tell you there is a difference between normal muffin baskets and the one my father sent. The basket was littered with any kind of muffin imaginable. The muffins were still warm and make the antique parlor smell of bakery, instead of death. I grab a blueberry and plunk it down on the counter; Brenda still has not left the driveway. She honks the horn, which sounds like the opening note to a military march. It signaled me to get outside and give the basket. I open the lacy white blinds and strike her the finger. The blinds look so innocent. They were unknowing for all the actions, which had gone on in the house behind them. At least my action was as repulsive as I was. Brenda honks again and I ignore her. She could sit outside naked in the snow and I wouldn’t care. We all knew she had always preferred dealing with Scott.

I walk back to the muffin I left for myself. I look at it. “You’re just and ugly cupcake.” Had my mental insanity just lead me to bully a muffin? The gargantuous basket couldn’t fit on the counter sat on the floor, making me feel remorseful for not getting rid of it. Everywhere I moved in the rather large kitchen, the basket was still in the way. I groan as I lift the basket. It needed to go and my father wouldbe expecting a thank you note. I trudged over to the new neighbor’s nearly identical house. All houses were the dame, tasteful, estate-sized houses. I walked across the street, almost dragging the muffin basket. I winced as I rang his high-pitch doorbell thrice. He smiles at me. “Welcome to Greenwich, where heaven and hell collide.” He chuckled at my ever-so-true statement and took the basket.

“You seem like a pleasent ne.” His sarcastic tone is almost as sexy as his normal voice. I snapped myself out of the trance he put me in. “Your shirt looks authentic. A nirvana still in good condition? You better do my laundry.”

“I bough it off a gypsy who was 13-moths pregnant. I traded it for my sixth toe. If you want the dealer go after her. Her caravan is off the coast of Satan.” He stifled a laugh.

“You truly take nothing serious…” I had a snarky comment to say, but my body just wouldn’t let me.

“Georgina- Georgie for short- G short from that. When they gossip about me they call me communism. It’s because I sound like a good idea at the beginning, but only ruin everything I touch.

“I think that’s great. We could be communism and the metaphor. It can be our band name.” He was an idiot. A fun idiot, who wasn’t an idiot at all. From that second on, all previous thought about this boy had vanished, leaving him a virginal slate. “Oh yeah I’m Charlie Fitch, I’m here with my sister and her fiancé Carson.” Called it.

“So… Snarky bitch has a brother. The delegates have a second kid? When did you come into the picture?”

“Just 15 years ago. The old folks are away doing work towards world pace.” He looked as everyone knew that exact same story abut his silly life.

“Once the world realizes that peace isn’t achievable is when all calamity will stop.”

“Wise words.” He said, grabbing the muffing basket from the floor and putting it on a table. A vase of peonies sat next to the muffins. What kind of jackass gets flowers for their table before they move in? “You can come in Georgina.”
No, I exclaimed. “I mean- I already have plans.”

“Oh… We should go to the movies sometime. You seem different. And different-different is good.”

“Anybody can be unhappy. We can all be hurt. You don't have to be poor to need something or somebody. Rednecks, hippies, misfits - we're all the same. Gay or straight? So what? It doesn't matter to me. We have to be concerned about other people, regardless.”
-Willie Nelson

What does different mean? Different is good? Did he call me ugly? Did he ask me out? Do I want to go out with him? “No Georgie! You don’t want to go out with Charlie Fitch!” I by-accidentally said that out loud. People all over the rotunda next to White Castle looked at me. The misadventures of a teenage misfit were ones that never ended pretty. I don’t really care what some random people sitting on benches eating white castle think. Then I saw the snicker of girls from school, they had heard me all right, and soon it would be all over town. I was a nuisance of a classmate, a vexation of a person, and one of the worst friends a person could be. Once their jovial giggling stopped it dawned me that there was no reason I was at the mall. The mall was a place where you came with your friends to shop and have a good time. I had no friends, no money on me, and was never in the mood for a good time. The thing about being lonely is that you only feel lonely if you think about how lonely you are and how “the whole student body” hates you. But if I left the mall- where would I go. Gladys would be at my house, and I did not have the strength to survive yet another lecture about how I was going to hell, and to stop worshipping Satan. After months of trying to convince her that I was not possessed by the devil, and I did not praise it, I had stopped trying. I also to convince her that the devil was only an excuse for people to fear death. She screamed something in Polish at me anytime I mentioned anything like that. As hard as one can try, only the ignorant can fight with the ignorant without looking and sounding ignorant. There comes a time when you can’t fight anymore without sounding stupid.








Atelophobia- Fear of imperfection.


I walked the two and a half miles from the mall back to my house. There weren’t many sidewalks, so I walked on the side of the road for most of the time. It was calming- minus the chance of being run over. I looked down at the road. Graffitied in a shade of vermillion, which only could be described as blinding, lays the words “freedom is slavery”. I’d seen these words often. I’d memorized the curve of the y, the straightness of the m. It’s sharp, almost triangular. It’s something I had put much thought into. I concluded that freedom is slavery in its own right. You are required to take this responsibility that must get extremely boring after a while. We all wish to be older, have more responsibility, more freedom. We force ourselves to grow up. It’s like when your six you say you want to be ten and you’ll be a “pre-teen”. Once you’re ten you realize you have no freedom, you want to be 15 so you’ll have some rights. Once you’re 15 you realize you still have to listen to people, so you want to be 18 so you can be on your own. 18 Comes around and you are bored, so you wish to be 21, so you can drink and party. You’re 21 now and you get sick of doing immature things, so you would like to be 25. You’re 25 and realize that being grown up isn’t all that great, and regret forcing yourself to grow up. It’s the way society has bred its youth. To yearn to be closer to death.


I continued to walk down the road and began to jog as I feel a light drizzle began to hit my shoulders. I still had another two miles to go. A car honked at me to move off the middle of the road. I move over to were the grass and road meet with a small fence. The corroding was taking over the whole fence. I contemplated going over the fence and walking on the grass, but don’t due to the population of deer with ticks in the area. The rain got harder and dripped down my skin. I sat down on the rusty fence and watched the cars drive by, their lights shining on the trunk of the car behind showing the possessions in the trunk.


The clouds were beginning to turn gray and cover the sun. It was only three-thirty. I had been thinking for two long. A car with loud rock music drove by. It drives over a large puddle, splashing water all over me. They looked at me and laughed. Most people can’t picture that other people are real people too; we forget that others have actual feelings. It’s a symptom a spending too much time by ones’ self.


It was time for me to get out of my head and walk. Every step sunk into inches of water. Some of the puddles were brown, others were gray, and the lucky ones were clear. More cars drove past me spewing water from the puddles like the sprinklers on my lawn. My legs are soaked in with a light layer of dreary colors. My canvas shoes were forming a small moat around my feet, but I trudge on. Girl against nature. This must have been how the Sumerians felt as the rain began to rise. Who know? Maybe G-d had decided to drown us for committing too many sins. God has a habit on going against his word. I would like to take off the heavy shoes, but the road and puddles are not a place where I wanted to walk barefooted. But I was a teen, and I was reckless. So I did it. It was a time when I did many things that were not smart. A pretty girl walking in the rain, wearing vintage clothing, barefoot. I was pretty “hipster”. How I hated the word. To be “hipster” was to be mainstream, it took away the whole purpose.


I continued to walk until I reached my street. It was six-thirty and I was cold, wet, and covered in a layer of dirty water. I strolled across the lawns, stepping in mud and puddles of murky liquids. Charlie had opposite emotions when I saw him jovially walking across lawns on the parallel streets. He was holding a football with two boys I had recognized very well. I knew if I ran I would divert unwanted attention towards myself, so I was screwed. I walked along the street; keeping my head down memorizing the pebble-dashed column Mrs. Thomas had lying in the middle of her driveway. It made no sense, but apparently when the old woman drove, she would always back out too far and crash into any cars parked on the side of the sidewalk. I look over in their direction to see if they had gone into Charlie’s house. He probably saw me looking. If any of them had seen me looking it would have been mortifying. I was then mortified.



Athazagoraphobia- Fear of being forgotten

“You know walking in the rain can get you sick.” He called across the street. “You know ignoring me does not stop my attraction to you.” He called again. I continued to walk, keeping my head down as rain pounded all over me. I kept thinking the same thoughts over and over as I remembered the final times I had spent with the other boys. The brain doesn’t have a pain receptor I would repeat. I don’t know why I did it, yet I continued. I guess it reminded me that pain is real, and I shouldn’t abuse the power of real things. The boys continued to laugh and throw the football in the rain, not even acknowledging my thereness. Thereness is another word that should be a word, but isn’t a word. Thereness is not only the existence at a certain place at a certain time- but thereness is the mental awareness along with the physical being.


After being humiliated I walked into my home. It was empty. It wasn’t much of a surprise that the house was empty. It was always empty. I was never particularly lonely. I spent my time thinking of greater ideas and analogies. The one, which I have concluded to support why I am not lonely, is, in this world there are the desired, the one who desire them, and the lonely. I was considered to be desired. I was the rebellious girl who all the goody-two-shoes girls had wanted to be. But they wouldn’t dare to admit it. They would be sent off to boarding school, or the monastery, or some mental asylum. But being desired by the ones who you don’t’ want to desire you sucks. You feel empty, which makes one feel pretty lonely- so my analogy sucks. I will admit it now, but I was pretty lonely. Words are only people if strung into sentences. Gatsby would not be Gatsby if the words Gatsby, light, and Daisy weren’t strung together.


Well no the whole world has just learned that I get sidetracked. It’s a side effect of loneliness. If I would talk about the same topic for a long time, then it wouldn’t hit me that I was not talking to anyone. I wasn’t even talking.