LIVE NIRVANA GUIDE TO KURT COBAIN'S ART Spoken Word

In a community that stresses macho male sexual stories as the highlight of all conversation, I was under-developed immature, fat little dude that never got laid and was constantly razzed. Oh, poor little kid! It bothered me, probably more so because I was horny and frequently had to make up stories, like, "Uh, when I went on vacation, I met this chick, and we fucked, and she loved it," etc., etc. This typical pubescent problem was a factor in the height of my problems with my father and stepmom. You know, the typical wicked stepmom story. And so I moved to both grandparents and four sets of aunts and uncles and so forth and so on within the year. And in 8th grade my mom had no choice but to take me in because my dad packed my stuff and drove me to her house in the morning and left me there. She was pissed. I accumulated quite a healthy complex, not to mention a complexion. Then one day I discovered the most ultimate form of expression ever: marijuana. Oh boy, pot. I could escape all day long and not have to have routine nervous breakdowns once a week. Only being stoned for the first few times is what I claimed is something I will do for the rest of my life and I would practically do anything to ensure my supply of the fantastic weed. Trevor was a guy I hated but resorted to becoming friends with because he was the only person I could get pot from. He was the Kingpin. Trevor, Ace, John, Darren — all white trash, low life, scum-of-the-Earth, according to the jocks — had been going to this girl's house after school, and they invited me. We got to the door, and a very fat girl let us in. It wasn't obvious to me for over an hour that this girl seemed kind of quiet until one of the guys pointed out that she was in a Special Ed class. I'm sure a lot of kids would call her a "retard" and some just "slow," and at the time, and still to this day, I would call her quiet and illiterate but not "retarded." The object of the guys who had been going there for the past month was to steal booze from the downstairs basement den of her house. While others distracted her by opening cupboards and doors and pretending to eat all the food, one would go down and take a fifth and then exit out the downstairs. So we did this routine every other day and got away with it for, oh, about a month. And during that month happened to be the epitome of my mental abuse from my mother. It turned out that pot didn't help me escape my troubles too well anymore, and I was actually enjoying doing rebellious things like stealing booze and busting store windows, and nothing ever mattered. I decided within the next month, I will not sit on my roof and think about jumping, but I'll actually kill myself. And I wasn't going out of this world without actually knowing what it was like to get laid. So one day after school I went to the girl's house alone and invited myself in. She offered me some Twinkies, and I sat on her lap, and I said, "Let's fuck." And I touched her tits, and she went into her bedroom and got undressed in front of me, and I watched and realized that it was actually happening. So I tried to fuck her but didn't know how and asked her if she had ever done this before and she said, "A lot of times," mainly with her cousin. I got grossed out very heavily with how her vagina smelled, and her sweat reeked, so I left. My conscience grew to where I couldn't go to school for a week, and when I went back, I got an in-house suspension for skipping. And that day the girl's father came in screaming and accusing someone of taking advantage of his daughter. And so, during lunch, a rumour started, and by the next day everyone was waiting for me to yell and cuss and spit at me, calling me the "retard fucker." I couldn't handle the ridicule. So I got high and drunk and walked down to the train tracks and laid down and put two big pieces of cement on my chest and legs and waited for the 11 o'clock train. The train came closer and closer and closer, and it went on the next track beside me instead of over me. The tension from school had an effect on me and so I couldn't attend the school anymore. And the train scared me enough to try to rehabilitate myself and my lifting weights and, and mathematics seems to be improving, so I became less manically depressed but still never had any friends because I- I hated everyone, for they were so phony.