HOME | DD

Description
I have to go to the doctor?s office one time a week. I write my name on a list, sit down, and then wait until the lady calls my name. Then I can get shot. This time I brought a book to read. It was by Kurt Vonnegut. Before I even opened it, I noticed that there was a part of the corner where part of the cover had been torn slightly. It made me unhappy. I opened it, closed it, turned it over, read some fragments written in different colors praising Mr. Vonnegut?s ?satirical style?. This made me angry. I like to think of it is something much cleaner, something that shouldn?t even be called a style. Then I started.
After about a page, the nurse called my name; time to get shot. I have to get shot twice, one in each arm. It doesn?t hurt but I always think that it will, and look away so I don?t have to see the little needles going into my little arms. When they?re done they start a timer that lasts twenty minutes. I have to stay there until that timer is done to make sure that I don?t have a reaction to getting shot, if I do, I might die. So I returned to my book. Mr. Vonnegut was now talking about how he went about gathering information for his book, and how he was pondering what his climax should be. I didn?t like that either. I was reading, and I could feel the pain in my arms, particularly my left one, and I was thirsty. It felt good. And I kept turning the book over to look at that one corner, I was seeing if the tear had gotten bigger. This made me very ashamed. But I kept reading too, and before I knew it, and before I could hide, the nurse called my name again. She checked the bumps on my arms, made sure I wouldn?t die, and then told me I could go.
I left the office and went out the door of the building. There was another man that was coming in and I thought that I should hold the door for him, but I didn?t. And driving home I was thinking about writing, and how I wanted to write, and how whenever I read Vonnegut I always wanted to write. This made me ashamed. I was the teenager buying a guitar after flirting with rock and roll. But I thought that if I acknowledged this, then it would be OK. So I bought the guitar anyway. So it goes. And I was driving back to my house thinking about what I would write, knowing that was the wrong thing to do. I had a great many thoughts and eventually my brain tried to make them memories and they became a big hurricane. I was ashamed of that too. And I thought about sitting down at my computer, and writing everything down. I was worried about what I would save it all as.
But I wanted to write and I knew that what I was doing was wrong and silly and dirty so I decided that it would be a good idea to carry around paper and a pencil with me from now on. I wanted it to be clean, so I could show them that it could be. But I kept thinking about my message, and what it would be, and how I would hide it, and how it would be clever. I knew this was wrong too, and self defeating; so I tried to stop thinking about it, which made me think about it more. And I realized that I had no message, no Kapow, no Boom. And no thin candy shell. So I decided to just write, and I figured that the best part about just writing would be that I might actually find out what my Boom is, because maybe I was hiding it in a shell of my own making. So I bought the guitar.