I'm standing outside Freedom Point, a local hangout, asking questions to random people walking in and out, telling them I'm doing a survey for an article I'm writing, when this kid who looks about ten years old keeps screaming “Don't talk to him! He's one of them fucking cops! Fuck them cops” I fight the urge to dropkick him in the head because that would be illegal, and a student visa is a very fragile status. Instead, my friend, Chris, explains that I'm just writing an article on small town life for my school newspaper (I'm not, it's an essay for a creative writing class). When my presence there is explained, the kid starts to shout “Don't fucking talk to him, he's one of them fucking journalists! You can't trust them fucking journalists!”
I think back to the one time in my senior year of high school when my creative writing teacher commented on one of my short stories. There was a ten year old kid who started swearing non stop, and she said it wasn't believable. Too unbelievable, in fact, that it wouldn't even be appropriate for the dream sequence in which this character was swearing. My creative writing teacher's obviously never been to Seymour.
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