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- Марк Мэнсон
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- Тонкое искусство пофигизма
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- Стр. 26/115
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He
looks
at
me
sternly
.
“
I
don
’
t
know
;
what
kind
do
you
have
?
”
He
opens
one
of
my
binders
and
checks
the
small
pockets
meant
for
pens
.
My
sweat
blossoms
like
a
fungal
growth
.
It
spreads
from
my
palms
to
my
arms
and
now
my
neck
.
My
temples
pulsate
as
blood
floods
my
brain
and
face
.
Like
most
thirteen
-
year
-
olds
freshly
accused
of
possessing
narcotics
and
bringing
them
to
school
,
I
want
to
run
away
and
hide
.
“
I
don
’
t
know
what
you
’
re
talking
about
,
”
I
protest
,
the
words
sounding
far
meeker
than
I
’
d
like
.
I
feel
as
if
I
should
be
sounding
confident
in
myself
right
now
.
Or
maybe
not
.
Maybe
I
should
be
scared
.
Do
liars
sound
more
scared
or
confident
?
Because
however
they
sound
,
I
want
to
sound
the
opposite
.
Instead
,
my
lack
of
confidence
compounds
,
unconfidence
about
my
sounding
unconfident
making
me
more
unconfident
.
That
fucking
Feedback
Loop
from
Hell
.
“
We
’
ll
see
about
that
,
”
he
says
,
turning
his
attention
to
my
backpack
,
which
seemingly
has
one
hundred
pockets
.
Each
is
loaded
with
its
own
silly
teen
desiderata
—
colored
pens
,
old
notes
passed
in
class
,
early
-
nineties
CDs
with
cracked
cases
,
dried
-
up
markers
,
an
old
sketchpad
with
half
its
pages
missing
,
dust
and
lint
and
crap
accumulated
during
a
maddeningly
circuitous
middle
school
existence
.
My
sweat
must
be
pumping
at
the
speed
of
light
,
because
time
extends
itself
and
dilates
such
that
what
is
mere
seconds
on
that
9
:
00
A
.
M
.
second
-
period
biology
clock
now
feels
like
Paleolithic
eons
,
and
I
’
m
growing
up
and
dying
every
minute
.
Just
me
and
Mr
.
Price
and
my
bottomless
backpack
.
Somewhere
around
the
Mesolithic
Age
,
Mr
.
Price
finishes
searching
the
backpack
.
Having
found
nothing
,
he
seems
flustered
.
He
turns
the
pack
upside
down
and
lets
all
of
my
crap
crash
onto
his
office
floor
.
He
’
s
now
sweating
as
profusely
as
I
am
,
except
in
place
of
my
terror
,
there
is
his
anger
.
“
No
drugs
today
,
eh
?
”
He
tries
to
sound
casual
.
“
Nope
.
”
So
do
I
.
He
spreads
my
stuff
out
,
separating
each
item
and
coagulating
them
into
little
piles
beside
my
gym
gear
.
My
coat
and
backpack
now
lie
empty
and
lifeless
on
his
lap
.
He
sighs
and
stares
at
the
wall
.
Like
most
thirteen
-
year
-
olds
locked
in
an
office
with
a
man
angrily
throwing
their
shit
all
over
the
floor
,
I
want
to
cry
.
