Read Starf*cker: a Meme-oir for Free Online Page B

parents, sighed in dismay. The doctor continued, ‘She died of several stabs in the chest and several more in scattered areas.’”
    How quickly would you have had your daughter removed from any contact with us if you were Mr. and Mrs. Lingo after catching wind of that Freudian mess? And what missing student’s parents allow themselves to be just another two faces in the crowd at their daughter’s autopsy?
    Dan and I spent weeks during recess figuring out the most diabolical ways for each and every one of our classmates to buy the farm. The killer wound up being—who else?—our mild-mannered substitute teacher.
    It was Mrs. Plunkett in the gymnasium with the rope. And the ax. And the butcher’s knife. And anything else she could find.
    I also wrote a series of short stories for that allegedly-high I.Q. class of mine, in which I brought to life an ominously smiling Blob that would assimilate all my gifted classmates. They may have been bright with puzzles, but in my stories, they never seemed to catch on that the giant red mass with the “have a nice day!” grin was a supernatural killing machine. Just because it was wearing a bonnet, that didn’t mean it was a harmless old lady.
    The Blob was created when a classmate named Mark was experimenting with “red food coloring, salt, vinegar, alcohol, and distilled vinegar” (lesson learned: never mix vinegars). Once he’d transformed into The Blob, he killed off one of my greatest academic rivals, Melissa W., and then went on to consume two cool girls, Patty and Michelle, who were inseparable friends in class.
    “After a three-week search, they found their thrashed carcasses in several trees near Central School, where the R.E.A.C.H room was.”
    Again, I actually liked these people in real life.
    The story was short, if not sweet, but ended with a laugh. I was the sole survivor, so it was up to me to change The Blob back into Mark, which I did:
    “The first thing Mark said was, ‘Strange, I seem to have the distinct taste of jeans in my mouth.’”
    However you slice it—usually through a cheerleader’s thorax—there seemed to be a literary need to kill off students wherever they existed around me. The Blob was supposed to have been created out of the body of a classmate, but it’s probably meaningful that I was myself a rather gelatinous pre-adolescent as I wrote the tale.
    The kids in my class thought the stories were hilarious, and so did my teachers. Today, I would be referred to the police. Certainly, I would have spent time with a school shrink instead of praised for my unabashed creativity. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with me in my own class after re-reading this stuff.
    My juvenile writing career in full swing, I did not shy away from non-fiction topics. I always felt my hometown was hopelessly conservative, and yet I got the maximum points possible for a junior-high report I did in 1983 (I was fourteen) called “Herpes: Danger In Disguise” for my honors biology class. Disguise? I think herpes is always out in the open, and if my health teacher Mr. Coggins had thought of that title a little harder he might’ve realized I could have been suggesting that the “disguise” was a big, juicy, suckable, fuckable penis.
    The report, which I unsurprisingly still have, is typed and has hand-drawn illustrations, including one of a big ol’ dong that resembles an adder, and comes with a flexi-disc (which I got from where???) with “Straight Talk About Herpes” for men on one side and for women on the other. I cover “condoms, spermicides, and diaphragms” as minimally effective preventatives. I even mention that herpes may be linked to “another form of cancer, Kaposi’s Syndrome.” I remember reading about “gay cancer” during my research, which was not encouraging for a gay kid already worried about how exactly penises and butts worked in conjunction with one another, and who was still fibbing about wanting to date unavailable girls from rival