Me: Chapter Eight – Ad Victoriam!

So. Once again. I come to you in dire need. Or something.


All’s I’m trying to say is that writing this has been even more taxing than the last one. I’m sorry everybody. I promise I’m doing the best that I can. Outside of actually fixing the fucking website as a whoke, already. But ehatever.

“You remember when I kept saying that I’m ‘The Bomb?'” I actually stoof there in front ofg all ofg my 4th/5th grade classmates. And those words came out of my mouth. They’re 4th/5th grade not becaude Idon’t recall which grade I was in. But because that’s how the class was constructed. It was a mix of fourth and fifthy graders.

But yeah.

Like. Legit.

Then this paper was awarded to me. And my dad framed it. And it’s still framed. Obviously.


All of this.


BNecause like…

I stood in front of those 20ish peers of mine and said…


And apparently, this earned me all sorts of Christian street cred. Or something. Nice.

I’m not sure what we were doing.

More than likely. We all, I dunno 20ish people in total, were in this off the beaten path strip mall. Place. But Mrs. Jackson and her husband called it a church. cause they paid rent for it or whatever. Mrs. Jackson and her husband rented out two storefronts of this here strip mall. One of them was their official churchy place. The other was, I assume the Sunday Schoolness? Actually, at first, all they rented was the one storefront. That’s where we always were. Then the rented the place next-door. And our place became the Sunday Schooliness. I remember that now. Anyways,

ALL 20ish of us were in the Sunday Schoolness. Most of us, I believe were in the middle of Devotion. This just meant we were singing This is the Day for like… I dunno… the billionth time. But Mrs. Pillow was dragging my nephew away. Dude was li9ke kicking and streaming, basically,. Crying too, obviously. Pretty much, Pillow was dragging him away so she could beat him. Spank him. Because he had a spirit of rebellion.

According to Mrs. Pillow, the whole “school” of us had a spirit of rebellion brewing. And rebellion is as sinful as witchcraft according to Biblical scriptures… or whatever. So she took my nephew to the back and beat it out of him. I guess. The rebellion.

I don’t know what happened. Fuck, I’m not even sure if my sister knows. I think that she was in the group of 20ish of us. But there’s a better chance that she wasn’t. Hell. Merhaps she doesn’t even know that this event happened. But it did. And for certain, my mom was in the group of 20ish.



Mrs. Pillow dragged my nephew out of the room. To the back. To beat/spank/whatever him.

The kid was four-years-old. That’s the OLDEST he could’ve been at the time.


At this point? There were probably 26 people. Maximum. In the room. “Teachers” (I mean, they were just our parents) and students included.

I’m on the stage. I’m about to read a two-[age story that was assigned to me. By this Christian cottage school. You see, I was assigned, as a 12-year-old to write a dramatic, historical fiction story. Sure. I’d seen something like The Patriot (which is a DAMN GOOD movie, shut up) at that point, pretty sure. Shit. If I’m not mistaken, we watched that movie as a school. Or it was at least discussed. Whatever

While I understoof the assignment, I had none% ideas of what I should write.

If I’m not mistaken, it was THE night before I strood on that stage when my mom suggested a story about a Nazi soldier that didn’t want to partake the ze Fuher’s final solution. So the dude shot himself.

According to AI, those are examples of “a Nazi soldier that doesn’t want to kill Jewish people so she shoots himself.”

And I wrote that story.

On my mom’s suggestion.

I turned that story in. To Mrs. Pillow. This was just moments before she handed that story back to me so that when my turn came up, I’d have to read it alloud to everyone. My mom. The random “teachers.” And their 4-year-old children included.

I pleaded with Mrs. Pillow, “You don’t want me to read this.”

She basically said, “Dude, if you don’t read this, you’re a pussy.”

Obviously not that.

But the “Christian school teacher” version of it.

So I was like, (mot literally but basically asking,) “Dude, just let me read the story that’s five pages long and has to do with a teenager that beats one of his supposed best friends to death instead of this one.”

Essentially, I also wrote Uncensored’s backstory. And I’d rather read that in front of everyone.

According to AI. That’s my “most famouos” e-fed character. According to his backstory.

Mrs. Pillow didn’t budge. She made sure I read the Nazi thing. In front of everyone.

All’s I knlw, for a fact, is that the reading ended with basically:

“And so. He put a gun to his head. The bullet went through one side and out the other.”

Har! Har! Make sypathy for LITERAL Nazi’s you dumb ass!

But the 26ish people applauded. So. There’s that.

But dude. Legfit. This was my mom’s story idea. I just wrote it. So.

Shut up, Mrs. Pillow!

And. Yeah. This was seventh or eighth grade.

As I’ve basically mentioned before, after kindergarten, I was homeschooled. But sometime around the third grade, or, you know, about around the time I was about to complete it or whatever.

Once upon a Sunday.

My paraent s found themeselves a brand spankin’ new megchurch to fall in love with.

This one, to be exact.


Or whatever.

RANDOM SIDENOTE: Must’ve been somewheres around the eighth grade where the, little offspring, cottage school thing promoteded this like “HEY! DON’T JOIN A GANG!” play, thing that happened at the BIG OLE’ church there. Point is, my dad took me and my best friend, Robert, to this play. Thing. And in one of the scenes. Some dude, legit said, “Cap this motherfucker!” In the house of the lord. HOW DARE THEY?! Or something.

Honestly? Going to this church. As an eight-to-ine-year-old, was about the closest I ever felt tl “God” or whatever. FFS. I remember during a worphip service thing, I even shot my hand up being “overwelmed by the spirit” or something. As long as I can remember I’ve hated songs. For the most part, you know. In movies, blah blah. Things like that. So naturally, I HATE “worship” portions of churches. But I actually “felt” something there. Once.

But yeah. This here megachurch had themselves a little schoolness happening. And. Going into fourth grade, my parents were like, “Yups! Let’s get ‘im in there!”

And I met Mrs. Jackson. It’s also where I was first introduced to Mrs. Pillow’s family. Mrs. Pillow had all three of her daughters enrolled. But I knew none% of them even though one of them should’ve been in my class…? As far as I remember. But whatavery.

This is kinda where all the problems started.

Picture there.


Blurred face?

Mrs. Jackson’s daughter.

Mrs. Jackson had to painstakenly paste our faces on those bodies for the yearbook. I remember watching her put my face there. And stuffs. The problem? I had a crush on her daughter. Don’t think anyone knew it aside from Robert. My best friend person.

You see… there was this time where Mrs. Jackson’s daughter and I were standing in some sort of line. I don’t know what the reason was. But like. It was more along the lines of we were standing up against a wall. And like. We’ll call her Alicia was standing next to me. Her, seemingly, best friend, Alice was on the other side of her. And for whatever reason the two of them were like butt-to-butt…? And Alice kept doing butt bumps on Alicia…? In turn, Alicia kept rubbing up against me. So.

Whoops. Whoopsie. Crush began.

Even though, like, obviously I shoulda had my eyes on this girl, Dina. She also liked Monday Nitro abd she actually had some sort of crush on me. I don’t remember what it was… a dance… thing…? Or something. Basically Dina asked me to that. But nah. I only had eyes for Alicia.

Jesus Christ.

I had a beef with this kid named Josiah. I don’t remember why. Dude probably made fun of me for being fat. I dunno. All I know for sure is I thought that giving him a diamond cutter would solve my problems. Instead, a girl in our class named Kimberly had to sit in front of him this one time. I was sat in between them at this table. But she burst into tears. Eventually saying, verbatim, “I have to look at that?!”



Mrs. Pillow had three daughters. Her oldest was in the 11th grade. Again. I’m in the 4th. AT THIS POINT in time, anyways. We’re all in Colorado and stuffsa. And it’s the end of the school year. And the school is collectively going to Denver. To the big ass theme park that was in the middle of the city. I don’t remember how or why. But before I knew MRs. Pillow, her daughters or anything. I was paired with Mrs. Pillow’s oldest daughter and Mr. Pillow. Whom… I’ll call Buck. Oldest daughter doesn’t really need a name. This is the only time she’s ever going to be mentioned. So.

There I am. In a van… I think? Driving to Denver. As a 10-year-old. With two strangers. Essentially. And they were supposed to be like. My guardian the whole time.

Welps. We get into the theme park. Immediately, Buck an d his daughter go to a ride called “The Mid Eraser.” And I probably was too scared to ride it. If I wasn’t ta;ll enough. I don’t know. Either way. Point is. Ride had a HUGE ass line. Buck and daughter went into that line. Left me by my lonesome.

So there I am. Essentially standing by myself. In the middle of a theme park. In a city in which I do not reside.

Mrs. Jackson. Her husband. Her kids. Her sister and HER kids. (Mrs. Jackson’s sister also was a teachery person, I was kinda sorta a friend of her son? Whatever) Approach me. And I go hang out with them. For the rest of the day.

Like. I’m poisitve, Buck was pissed. Who wouldn’t be, right? But fuck guy. Even more, later in this rambling (forreals).

Other than that? I haven’t a clue what happened on this end of the school year trip thing. I don’t know if I went on any rides or anythig fun like rthat. All I know for sure when it came time to leave (and I mean the suin was still out and stuffs). Mrs. Jackson’s group of people and myself made ouur way back to the front gates.

Then Buck grabbed my hand. I don’t know if I did, but I probably said goodbye to Mrs. Jackson and co. as Buck dragged me back to his van or whatever it was.

A theme park in the middle of Denver.


“I know you’re not old enough to understand what homework is,” Katie said to my four-ish-year-old nephew. “But you should be old enough to know what respect is!” Like. It’s not that she hated the kid. My nephew, definitely wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was, essentially, playing with toys a bit too loudly around her. But. Katie was easily frustrated. By everything. Ever. And I mean, in the grand scheme of things, she kinda had every right to be frustrated. By everything. Ever.

Katie was Mrs. Pillow’s second daughter.

You see. By the time she was four-years-old, Kat had had something like four strokes. The whole left side of her body was basically useless. She could walk. Well. Limp. Even saying that fweels far too mean. But it’s just factual. Her left arm was always fixed in the bent position. Her hand was curled over, rendering it useless.

Or was it her right side?

Doesn’t matter.

It’s somewheres in here that I experienced the best time I’ve ever had with my dad. 5th-6th grade, merhaps?

At first, my dad was the teacher that participated in this cottage school.

Wjich… OK. I’ve said cottage school at least once before.

I hope this helped.

This is how I was educated in fith to eigth grade.

But yeah. My dad was the teacher that participated at first. Even though my parents still paid Mrs. Jackson like $50 or some ridiculous bullshit. Probably more. Whatever. Point is. My dad taught. Math. And stuffs. And things. And words. And he’d take me to the school. And all of that.

Dad would make some bomb ass egg breakfasts most mornings. Like. As much as I fancy myself a good cook, person. Like. Bruh. I could never hold a candle to how awesome these breakfasts were. Dude’d have mashed potatoes mixed brilliantly in scrambled eggs. And just. oof.

And on the off days when he didn’twant to make breakfast? I mean, yeah. Cereal was typical. But. We’d just go grab some…

B-52 Breakfast burritos. (Random Hashbrown there doesn’t exist though)

So yeah. In those early years. My dad taught math to kids. Something, something. One, two, skip a few. 99. I cheated. And my dad was all proud of me. Not because I cheated. But… I think I turned in homework? Or something. Like… weeks worth of it…? Or something. Because the teacher’s math book was like… right in the kitchen and shit. So I just copied answers.

Turned all that shit in in advance.

And my dad was super proud. Cause I went above and beyond. His little promised child of God was exceeding expectations. Or something.

I think I got caught eventually. But who knows.

Either way. Point is. This was the best time of my life with my dad. Breakfasts and shit. Him driving me to school in his Ford Maverick. All Death Proof-y as it was. Jesus. It was awesome my dudes. So much so that when he was all scarily on his death bed years later, Jennifer Maria Kenpeau asjed me about my favorite time with my dad while she was on the phone with me. And immediatle, I didn’t have an answer. But then. I remembered this. Breakfasts. Death Proof‘d Maverick.

So. At least this good thing happened. Because of Victory.

Seventh or eighth grade.

We were asigned to do a report type like thing of a country where, the expectation was, we’d do like a missionary thing? That’s not what she said. That’s what we were doing.

The country I chose was Italy.

So. Sometime on a Saturday? I uh… went to the “school.” To put down some tape… essentially, I was “drawing” Italy. On the carpet. With like… tape. Not scotcjh tape. Not duck tape. Not the blue tape to help you paint shit. But just… the white tape. Whatever that’s called.

I had to draw Italy.

In tape.

On the floor’s carpet.

So I did.

And I blared Eminem’s Marshal Mathers LP the whole time. IN THE HOUSE OF THE LORD! OF AL L PLACES?! RIGHT?! HOW DARE ME?!

Whoops. Whoopsie.

Basically my motto. Well. At least in middle school…?

“So are you just going to blame God,” My sister said. Atop of the stage. In front of the podium. She was essentially, like… doing devotion, or whatever. Like. She was teaching God. Bible. God. Things. “When you stub your toe? Was that God’s fault?”

That’s what she was preaching. It happened. Shut up, crime.

When Mrs. Jackson found out that my sister smoked.

That ended my sister’s time as a preacher and teacher at the school.

Some weeks or months later, my sister saw Mrs. Jackson’s eldest daughter buying cigarettes. For Alicia, pretty much. And. Whoops. Whoopsie.

This is where the cracks in my Christian beliefs began.

Especially since my mom continued to teach and/or preach. And she smoked. Cigarettes.

Dun duhduh duhhhhh!

“Go ahead.” That’s what I told Sophia. “Try to make it hurt this time.”

And she did. She tried to make me cry, basically. She dug her nails into my arm’s skin and stuffs. She was pinching me. And this was a consentual, regular occurance. In like… fifth-seventh grade. She wore glasses. Like her mom and sisters. I’m pretty sure her dad did too.

But,. Cant confirm or deny at the moment. But. More on him later. Still.

Not so ironically enough, Fight Club begins around here.

So yeah. Sophia was Mrs. Pillow’s youngest daughter. Sopha was my age. But for whatever reason, she was in the third grade at the big school? Then she hop, skipped and jumped her way to my grade in the little school. Thing. I dunno. None of this really matters.

I’l.l give Mrs. Pillow a couple of things.

  1. Essentially, she tought me my grammar. Like. I had learned all of high school grammarness by the time I hit ninth grade. So. Whoops. Whoopsie… shut up, high school English classes! Or whatever, Like. Right now. I could dissect THIS sentence and do a diagram of it. If I wanted to. Thanks to Mrs. Pillow.
  2. This is something that’s always stuck with me. And she’s ABSOLUTELY right about it. Name a letter, bruh. Fuck it. Let’s go with the letter, “B.” What sound does it make? 11/10 people will tell you that it makes the sound, “buh,” But that’s bullshit before you, bretheren. Belly laughing at myself. Because. The letter, “B,” does not have a “-uh” sound attached to the end of it. “B,” does not say, “Buh.” It just says: b.
  3. None of that shit ever helped me to pronounce… anything. Though. I mean. “Bjorn,” is a name that exists… you know?


It was another one of those times were we were supposed to stand in front of te whole school. And wer were supposed to read a thing we wrtote. All I know for 1000% sure is my mom assigned all of us kids this… thing.She was on a kick about Banzai trees at the time. If I’m not mistaken. She like… bought most, if not all of the kids in the school a Banzai tree to take care of?

Little tree in pot.

Point is. The assignment was/ We were supposed to write about a plant. Like. Garden. Plant. Thing. But it was suppoded to be covertly about a student at the school. Whom, after we stood in front of everyone and read the assignment out loud, it was expected that the student we wrote about would be revealed. Hopefully that made sense. If it didn’t, it will shortly.

We had some newcomers to the school around this time.

There was this girl named Christina. She was around 16. I was around 13.

RANDOM SIDENOTE: Christina’s cousin(s?) also attended the school. That girl was… I dunno… around Sophia and my age. All I knlw, for certain is… either this girl cousin person had this big ass moment quoting the end of… I think it was Rush Hour 2, where she mimmicked Chris Tucker, saying: “But you’re one crazy lady!” Or something. Even though… you know… Chris Tucker said…


Like… there weren’t adults around. It was just us students. And cousin person decided to censor herself. And immediately I disliked her. She’d go on to prove herself to be pretty air-headed in other way too. Blah,blah,blah

Christina though.

There was this time where like. As the little cottage school, thing that we were. We went back to the old church. You know. “JESUS! FAMILY WEDNESDAY NIGHTS! THING!” place. Because the big church had a kitchen. And we went there and we were taught how to cook and stuffs. This also happened when we went to Mrs. Pillow’s house and she forced us all to make this meatloaf thing that tasted good but didn’t sit right.

We’re i n the big church. And my mom’s making everyone cook meringue (thanks Welly)… something someting.

I’m standing next to Christina. We’re both at two different stoves stirring this merignue around in our pots. I’m doiing my best to whick it around and such. But.

Christina. The 16ish year-old-christian little sos and so says…

“This looks gross.”

And I started laughing. A lot.

Cause… Christina wasn’t wrong.


Sophia stood atop of the makeshift stage. In front of the podium. And she read all abou tthis beautiful rose. That was so perfect. Smelled amazing. And everything. Perfection. But the rose had thorns. And those thorns hurt.

Dun duhduh dunnnnn… Christina. Sophia was writing about Christina. Because. Christina was, legit, a huge dick to Sophia for no particluar reason. She just Mean Girl’d the shit out of her. And it was bad. I mean. Christina also probably hated me too. That time with the Meringue was the only time I ever “connected” with her. The whole time Sophia read her “rose” thing, I was sitting, basically next to Christina. She made faces about the writing the whole time. She even said under her breath, “Me,” when Sophia admitted that she was writing about her.

But at this point. Sophia and I were… I mean… for a good year or two we were the only people we had that were our age and stuffs. Our grade. All of that. In a lot of ways. All we had was each other. At this chool. Sophia bought into all of it, Christian, blahblahblah far more than I did. Because.


Like… Limp Bizkit existed? Or something.

It was leftmost two storefronts. But these days? They own the whole fucking thing. Apparently.

But then. It was my turn to read the plant thing.

I wrote about a banzai tree. A tree that wanted to grow and grow big. But its caretaker kept trimming its roots. The banzai tree remained the ittle tree in pot that it was. As much as it wanted to expand, its branches got trimmed. And again, even worse, the roots would be cut yet again.

Merhaps that paragraph there was more beautiful than the one I wrote when I was 13ish. I mean. Obviously, I was 13ish. It probably sucked back then,.

But I left that makeshift stage. Thing. The podium. And I returned to my seat. Everyone was all like, “So who were you writing about?”

My mom was on the makeshift stage. At or near the podium. And she said, “He wrote about himself.”

Now. To be fair. The night before we both stood on that makeshift stage. Thing. I went to my mom and I askedn, “Could I just write about myself.” She didn’t give me a diffinitive answer. So I wrote the Banzai tree thing. No matter how it was written. I’m 1000% positive that it was the best thing I wrote as a Victory Chistian-y student-y person.

“And Sophia.” I said. After the other students had started to moan about how you weren’t supposed to write about yourself.  Because. Mrs. Pillow had restricted her daughter FAR too much. That’s all that needs to be said.

RANDOM-ISH SIDENOTE: Sophia was the first person I went on “a date” with. Like. My dad drove and watched a movie with us. Kinda date. BUT. This was after uh…  Victus Sum!… abd left the school. And entered high school.

Around that same time of the RANDOM-ISH SIDENOTE, Katie was trying to get married and pregnant. And. You know. Start a life. With an apparently beautifual man that would look past everything. And… welll…

Alas, something, something. Buck apparently raped her at some point when she was young.


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