Guys I Wanted To Fuck in High School is a series of short essays about growing up frustrated in small-town Pennsylvania. (This is the last entry in the series, and will be followed up later this year with a series of limited edition print chapbooks, each with a different cover by a different artist.)
by Conner Habib
See because at the end of this year, summer won’t be summer anymore, it won’t be a break between school and school, like the place you go after you die but before you’re kicked back into life. It won’t be a way station, it’ll just be hot and hotter and then collapse into red leaves and puffs of breath you can see and everyone will say, hey, it’s Autumn now.
And morning won’t be morning, no rushing to get ready, to hurry through the park, across the bridge, up the hill to the school, where the kids congregate and tease each other and tease me and hide their cigarettes till the doors open and swallow us all up. I’ve known most of those kids since I was four or five, and they’ll all be gone and morning will just be the time when I wake up.
And I won’t be me, I’ll be this person with a mark, an empty little square of loss inside of me that never gets filled in. That’s love. Everything will change.
Which is how I know that almost everything I thought was real is arbitrary. I figured out some of this early on – like why do we have to raise our hands to go to the bathroom? What’s a “grade” and why should I care? Why do we have to raise our hand to ask a question? Or sharpen our pencils? When you see through all that haze and there’s nothing behind it, the teachers don’t like you much. But now I’m starting to see that even more of it makes no sense, it’s all like a tight coil, unraveling. You know, like how you twist up a straw wrapper and then let a drop of water fall onto it? That’s what this year is like, what the right questions are like, what love is like. A knot turning into a snake, slowly coming to life.
Follow Conner’s every step here: