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All I Need Is a Friend MAG
Books fill up my room.
Not baseball cards,
or pictures of girls,
or basketballs.
Maybe a blown up picture of …
… Pam Anderson might help.
Black-framed glasses
and a white,
pale,
lanky
body.
I should start working out.
At least I can read.
I read four books a day last summer.
The librarian,
80-year-old Mrs. Woodsworth,
she knows my middle name.
If only I had a real friend.
I am sick of seeing her old,
bony,
pale body.
Although it resembles mine.
The kids at school laugh.
Is it the way I dress?
Lacoste,
Ralph Lauren,
La Tigre.
I’ve tried every designer out there.
Staying in the house really saves me money.
My stupid rich parents give me $50 a week for lunch.
$50 times 36 weeks …
what is that?
$1,000,
$2,000,
$10,000?
I should probably know.
Straight A’s 12 years in a row
and counting.
With all of this,
or none of this –
it depends how you look at it –
all I need is a friend.

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It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.