Write part of a story in the form of journal entries. Writing this made me feel way old. 700 words.
April 8, 1994: Kurt Cobain was found dead today. I was sitting in the stairwell at school eating my lunch and reading Breakfast of Champions when I overheard a group of girls talking about it. They said he killed himself three days ago-shot himself or overdosed, I can't remember which-and his body was just found today. They were all crying as if they had lost a boyfriend, going on and on about how Courtney Love totally destroyed his life and it was all her fault which is a stupid thing to say when you think about it. I doubt she put the gun in his hand and said, "Here you go sweety. Fire when ready!" And would they care if he wasn't some big famous singer? Doubtful. Why do people waste their sorrow on strangers they barely know?
April 10, 1994: Finished writing Greg Thibedeaux's book report on Champions. He's a D- student and he wants A+ work. I tried to reason with him, warned him Mr. Aaron would suspect the obvious, but he was insistent. He's paying good money, and I pride myself on giving my customers what they want. Greg is a moron who will probably make it all the way to college pro before ending his career with a busted knee. He'll end up being an over the hill bag boy or beer bellied construction worker with a trailer full of dust covered trophies from his wonder years. I'm not being petty. Okay, I'm a little petty, but I'm also realistic. I broke professionalism the other day when I suggested he might want to have something to fall back on just in case football doesn't work out. Of course, he got defensive. Said he'd find someone else to give his money to, someone who wouldn't get all preachy on him. Smoothed things over by offering to do his math homework over the weekend free of charge. Note to self: Never get personal with a client. It only causes trouble.
April 11, 1994: Everyone is talking about the vigil held for Cobain the other day. Girls are crying and hugging each other for comfort. Students are cutting class to hit the music stores so they can snag copies of Nirvana albums they already own. Even Greg was misty eyed when I handed over his work. "It's the end of an era man," he told me when I asked what was wrong. It's been bothering me all day. Not the death of some idiot musician or even every one's reaction to it, but my lack of reaction to something that is obviously a huge deal. If this is the end of an era, why don't I feel apart of it?
April 14, 1994: I'm behind on every one's school work including my own. Spent the last three afternoons locked in my room, reading up on Kurt Cobain, listening to Nevermind and In Utero, just trying to figure out what the fuss is about. Greg lent me his copy of Bleach after I promised to return it undamaged. Seems like wasted effort. Why bother when I can turn on the radio. Every station is playing Nirvana's music, and after three days of hearing the same songs over and over, I still don't get it. I wonder if it was like this when Buddy Holly died. I made the mistake of asking mom and she wanted to know why the sudden interest. I told her about Kurt. Dumb. She panicked. Asked if I was feeling depressed, wanted to talk to a psychiatrist, etc. Told dad when he came home from work. He gave me a lecture on moral responsibility and the ethics of suicide. I tried to explain my interest was merely sociological-not a total lie-but he wouldn't let me get a word in. An hour later, all my music is confiscated including Greg's cassette. He's going to be pissed. I've also been informed that we will all be attending church this Sunday-the first time since Easter. My presence is mandatory. This is why I don't tell my parents anything. For the first time in a long, long time, I feel like a teenager should: angsty and defensive. The weird thing is, it feels kind of good. Maybe I'm starting to get this grunge thing after all.
April 15, 1994: As I predicted, Greg was pissed until I explained the situation with my parents. His dad has been riding him for missing football practice this last week. "Like there aren't more important things going on in my life than throwing a freakin' ball around," he said and the look of scorn took me by surprise. I always thought he was happy being a jock.
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