So, I sit here staring at my Italian sub while the food court teems with people. It's funny, how one tenth of a percent can change your whole life. I mean, it's such a small thing, not even a half, less than a quarter. A measly one tenth. That's what stands between me and getting off this damn rock. Hey, I may be a born loser, but I am not stupid. I've got the IQ to prove it too. I'm going to be here when the damn Swarm show up and they'll probably go, "HEY, there's a nice fat one, lets eat him first."
I know I'm fat, my mom always said big boned, but it means the same thing. I'm overweight, obese, a fatty. Hey, I was 200lbs on my 13th birthday. How's that strike you? Yeah, I know what you're thinking, damn look at that fat ass. Well, you'd be right. Who's going to want to pick a 14 year old fat ass boy as their fucking concubine?
I pick up the plastic card that sealed my fate. Seriously, like I asked the fucking guidance counselor, what chance does a 14 year old 5'10" 225lb kid, with no friends and no parents have? None, nada, zip, zilch, zero. Any way you say it, it all adds up to "absolutely no fucking way."
I pick up the sandwich I had paid hard earned money for and toss it in the trash. Why eat? I'm not going to live long anyway. I already have a plan. I'm kind of sorry to not be able to stick around and see the results. Hell, it is going to be spectacular. I wonder how many days the story will make it on the front page before someone else does something even more spectacular.
I guess you could say that I'm being used. But I don't know if that's true either. See, the way I see it, I'm using them. The fact that they'll survive and I won't is beside the point. You see, I want to die. Yep, it's true. I want to die. I have no reason to go on living and no one will miss me.
My foster parents? Yeah right. They'll be happy I'm not eating everything in sight, and they'll probably hope that no one at DCFS catches on so they can keep cashing the check I generate every month. Friends, who would want to be my friend? I move so much, thanks to DCFS, that making friends is a no win proposition. Now I just keep everybody away, be an asshole, or whatever works. I've lost too many friends already, I don't need any more.
I found these guys I'm helping out on the web, where I do have a few friends. They might notice I haven't posted to the blog today, but hey, they'll forget all about me in a week. I've seen it happen. So it's all going to happen because of one tenth of a percent. Kind of ironic I think.
What brought my score down? What caused me to be here, now, with several strategically placed containers full of various household chemicals in just the right proportions ready for the pressure of one tenth of a pound?
See, there's that number again. One tenth. It keeps popping up. That's how I knew what I was planning was right, how I knew I was ordained for this task. It's also how much pressure I need on the button of the transmitter in my coat pocket. I stand next to the trash can; I can see the men they told me to watch for. Three just came through the door and four more are standing in the hall that leads to the mall proper. Mall proper? There's nothing proper about a mall...