he talks with his hands, and moves in exaggerated dances when he gets excited, so that every conversation is a kind of performance, in whihc what he said, and the way that he would have acted are blurred together into a sort of spastic onrush, an endless torrent of imagined violence. he has a wooden baseball bat with "nazi tool" written on it in sharpie, and a fondness for pain pills that started with purloining his mother's sleeping pills, her antidepressants and pain medication, we'd drink on my roof, forties from scraped change, robbed wishing wells, car drink cups growing warm in our hands, listening to the coke dealer fight with his girlfriend downstairs, the fake dawn of the city glowing yellow against the clouds. he is filled with boundless energy, and so he likes to get high a lot, to soften the edges, the hostility from being the small kid, the kid with delicate features, the white kid with the curly hair, the dark complection. we call him rosanne rosannadanna when we want to fuck with him. from the way ti sticks out on the sides of his head like a cleopatra wig.
He likes megadeth, Exodus, Metallica, and Nuclear Assault, so i show him DRI and the Misfits. he wears a ratty old "peace sells but who'se buying" backpatch on an icewashed denim jacket that smells like bongwater. the walls of his room are covered in pages torn from circus and hit parader, he's got a spindly pot plant, probably male, growing in his closet under a fluorescent light.
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