Holden.

I'll tell you what really sucks. The mall. All those soulless bastards walking around buying hoodies from American Eagle for like 50 bucks. I was there a while ago with my older sister, Annie, who used to be cool but now just shops a lot because after she graduated from college she got a real job. She always wanted to be an artist, but instead she got a job in an art gallery as the receptionist and worked her way up, and now she gets really rich people to buy expensive paintings that look like crap. They don't even care what it looks like. If it's expensive, they buy it and hang it in their bathroom or something. So of course we didn't go into American Eagle, we went into Bloomingdales where she dropped about $400 on a few shirts. I wanted to puke. 

We went out for drinks afterward and I got really drunk. I hadn't eaten all day and I'm only seventeen but I drank a lot and started slurring all over the place. I never get carded around here, especially when I'm with someone older. Some guy came over to chat and waited about thirty seconds to start staring down my shirt. That's the thing about guys. They don't care if you have nothing to say, but they stare down your shirt. I said "the only reason you're standing here is to look at my tits." I always want to say that but usually don't. He looked pretty surprised and then politely excused himself. I felt kind of bad until Annie slapped my leg and asked why I would say something like that. I told her "because it's true." And it is. If I didn't have big tits, guys would never talk to me because I don't want to listen to them talk about themselves. Annie doesn't get it because she has a flat chest and an agreeable nature. She'll sit there nodding her head for hours listening to some guy talk about his car or his job. That's probably why she does so well selling art to rich idiots. 

I just read something about Suze Rotolo, who was Bob Dylan's girlfriend back in the 60s. She just came out with a book about the Village at the time, so of course the Times ran a big article with lots of pictures of Suze and Bob from about 45 years ago looking young and cute. Old people love that stuff. Anyway, Suze said people need to get over the 60s because every time has things happening in them, and people who think differently and make interesting things out of it all. I read that here, in this place, this morning. I wish I would've read that before I landed in here, even though my parents probably still would've shipped me off. 

After we left the bar that day after shopping, I kind of start of wigging out. I saw all these sad people coming out of the mall with their bags and bags of clothes, and how they could feel completed for a few minutes because of it all. And how all those clothes would end up in a big pile on the dollar table at the Salvation Army. And then I thought of how most guys only stare at your boobs and talk about themselves, and what's even worse is that the ones who don't are too shy to talk at all. I started to cry and Annie was getting on my case about things and then I screamed a little and got hysterical. I probably looked like one of those crazy bastards you feel sorry for all the time. Anyway, Annie didn't help, and called my parents for chrissakes. That day wasn't really the first time that happened to me. So they stuck me in here. You could tell they felt bad about it, but not really because they've convinced themselves its the best thing for me. And them, probably. I'm not going back to school next term. I don't know what I'll do. I'd like to get as far away from here as possible. I'd like to go somewhere that doesn't even have roads for cars. I'd like to go sit in the middle of the woods for a while and never see anyone again. 

All the girls in my dorm will probably talk about it and soon everyone in the whole school will know that I left. That's what happened when one kid left in the middle of the year, and everyone said he had schizophrenia. I don't even know if it's true but everyone thought it was so it doesn't even matter. No one really leaves in the middle of the year. Unless they get kicked out. Then old Davidson gets up and tells everyone why some poor got the boot. Usually its because they were getting drunk in the dorms or something. One time they sent a German exchange student home for copying about two sentences of some book in a paper. The place is pretty ruthless. That's why all the inmates start to go crazy. This place is actually a lot nicer. At least I don't have anyone breathing down my neck telling me to get off the phone and do my homework. 

I told my roommate, Julie, she could have all my blazers and to give the rest of my stuff to whoever wants it. Some of my stuff is pretty nice, I guess. But before we left for winter break, she wrote me this poem. It was really nice. It was about winter and people, and was full of metaphors. It really blew me away because she's pretty quiet and just works on her homework a lot. The night before break all the  girls in the dorm got together and ate cookies and stuff.  Julie didn't come because she was working on some paper or something, and so everyone started talking about her. It was pretty crappy. I should've said something, but I didn't want them to start talking about me. Anyway, I didn't think Julie thought about things like quiet snow and bare trees and people. Actually the poem made me cry a little the second time I read it. She wasn't around, and I didn't tell her. I never want to wear a blazer or stockings or eat cookies with people who talk about other people ever again. 

I've been thinking a lot about what Suze said. I hope its true, about every time being OK. Because right now is pretty stupid. The whole world could end in about 30 seconds. Someone could push a button in some cave or skyscraper and it would all be over. I guess not everyone knows that. If they did, there would be a lot more people in this place. Everyone would start crying when they saw people with shopping bags if they knew the world could end in a second. And the people who didn't would need to talk about their feelings to someone who writes them down.