Kyle Fannindale
Well, I flunked that test. Even after all the help Stephen Joyce gave me, I still fucked it up. It looks like I’m going to be in chemistry again next year. Unfortunately, the way it’s going, it looks like I’m going to have to repeat my Course II Math class too. I don’t want to have to sit through it a second time, but my guidance counselor told me I needed it to graduate. It’s not going to matter soon, because I’m planning on dropping out of school. My band is definitely going to get signed as soon as we start sending out demos, and then I’m going to be set for life.
I have the new Slipknot CD in my Discman as I walk downstairs to my math class. I played the album for Stephen last night. He’s really into metal too, so I figured he would like it. He called it “talentless trend-garbage” that would fade away as quickly as Marilyn Manson. Sometimes, Steve has some bad taste. He’s into that Iron Maiden and Alice Cooper garbage, bands that need to get out of the way and make way for the new wave. I told him he should come see my band, because we would definitely change his mind. At least he’s not as bad as those fucking punk rock kids. Talk about talentless! Oh well, at least Stephen always has good weed.
Steve Valentine, whose brother was making fun of my band and doing jumping jacks the one time we played a punk rock show, is still in the class when I get there. I tell him to let his brother know we’re going to kick his ass, and that we’re going after these punkers one by one. I sit in his seat when he leaves. That kid is a little geek. I think he’s retarded.
Mr. Polanski makes me take off my headphones, even though class hasn’t started yet. He told me that he wouldn’t care if I didn’t turn it up so loud that everyone else can hear it. The guy is such a fucking Nazi.
My band finished making new masks last night. Mine is kind of like the guy from Slipknot’s, a white mask with rope braids. Mine is different though, because it’s a skull. With that done, we’re going to record a demo tape soon. I can’t imagine that we won’t get signed. We’re the best fucking band in this area, and we’ve been playing shows for almost six months now. Any record producer that doesn’t sign us is a fucking crack-head! People are eating music like ours up like mad. It’s the next big thing. We could be the next Beatles!
I hate math class. It’s such bullshit. It’s not like I’m going to need any of this, especially in the music industry. Any math I need to do, I’ll use a calculator. If it’s anything more than that, I’ll fucking hire someone. I sit through the class, pretending to take notes, when I’m actually just drawing skulls an writing Coal Chamber lyrics. As soon as the bell rings. I’m out the door.
That one punk rocker, that Clark guy, is walking along with his geek friend. That Clark guy is one of the kids who was making fun of my band back in December. I should kick his ass right here and now. I’ll wait until I have the band with me, and show him not to mess with us.
I pass by that nigger, Storm Johnson.
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