I remember a lot of things when I was little.
Cut your hands off with a knife. It's burning in the clothes. The first time I went to the beach with my parents and went swimming in the sea was suffocated by sea water. The fear of being bitten by bats, of being infected with the virus. In the back of the country, the pigs are pissed off and the fear is brought on by their madness. The parents of the classmates, who were sitting in the school office with their high toes, were injured in the repression. "You're a little bit of a pussy," he said. Wait.
I don't think it's personal, I don't think it's because my childhood is more unfortunate than others, or because I'm an individual who tends to remember pain. I think it's genetic. The complex coding of genes reminds individuals of dangerous things and defines the perception of such events as "suffering", so that individuals can avoid such dangers and become safer. But it is clear that the pace of human social development is faster than that of hyenas and that our genetic code is lagging behind. If human genetic codes do not tend to remember happy things, it is equally difficult today to support the survival of individuals.
I've just had a happy classmate, K. I only fight with her every day. I hit her and then she chased me or the other way around. Or scold each other. If I can't catch her or if she can't catch me, I'll push each other's desk down. One time I pulled her hair and hid in the men ' s room, and she didn ' t hesitate to rush into the men ' s room and chase me. She and I had a rough fight, probably between simple and really angry. She once told me I was excited to see you.
She then jumped off the building, allegedly because her mother slapped her at home. She was killed, jumped off the fifth floor and broke her foot. My mom had an appendicitis operation and I was at the hospital with my mom. K's right next door to my ward, and from time to time he screams like a pig. I used to laugh at her, she was really angry. Later, she stopped coming to school, and I didn't know where she was.
My first year and last graders played well, chatting with each other. Too bad my seat is in the front, he's in the last row, or we can talk in class. His name is M. He's from the village. He's not a son of the Three Friends.
My parents didn't worry about my choice of primary and lower secondary school, because I went directly to the factory's kids' school. Almost all the pupils of the workers were in primary school, and when they moved to lower secondary school, some of the nearby villages did not have a lower secondary school and went to my lower secondary school, where M completed primary school, where I was assigned a class. He said he was powerful in the village, and if I was bullied, I could find him. He's telling the truth, and he's really scared of three points by a gang in the building block. He looks stable compared to other boys. He talks to my classmates, he doesn't fight, he doesn't bully. Maybe he's too tall and too fat to move so fast.
The most beautiful girl in the class at that time was called #, the five officers were fine, dark, and the colour of their lips was brown in proportion to the colour. M changed his qq signature to love you# and often texted her. M. used to make fun of her in class. M. was kind of scary, big, broad-faced in a kid, # didn't like him, but he didn't like M. teasing her, laughing and playing with him.
M didn't finish up until he went back to work. I saw him again in third grade, he went back to school to visit his classmates. I saw him at the stairwell, playing with the latest Apple 5s. He saw me say hi and smiled and asked me if I'd go to dinner tonight, and he invited me. I can't laugh. I'm about to pass.
The second lowest in the class is called N, the other village. He and M and I used to play together. He sometimes crosses me, toes high, but not to my liking. Unlike M, he's often in conflict with children in this side of the neighborhood. I now recall that it is difficult to know about him because he died.
He went out at night and sat in the back seat of his friend ' s motorcycle. On his right, he ran into the opposite bread, and his whole leg was hit with his cock. The next day, I painted in the studio and saw the news on qq. I thought N beat someone up again and someone scolded him on qq. I didn't know he was dead until I confirmed it. I now have in my memory very little to remember about being with him, except for the sadness of learning about his death.
On one occasion, there was a group of Cs with more than 20 people, and N called over 60 people. As soon as the men on the N side had come up, the M had to stop screaming, because it might have happened. But even if it stopped so fast, C was broken.
That's what M told me. They didn't call me. They think I'm a good learner, and they don't call me in crowds.
In the period following N's death, C's had been so depressed in school, many of them so depressed, and the entire lower secondary school building looked so gloomy. N's a good man. Many people are sad because he died. One of the villages was small, and I was very close to him, and I wanted to spend some time with him, but he was very unstable and hid from everyone.
One more interesting thing. There's a fool in school that everybody hates. He knew that everyone was bothering him about him, so when he had a chance, he called someone else, so he could beat him up and get attention. But whether he's been trying to provoke others or whether he's first isolated by other students, the cause and effect of which are unknown. The fool was beaten particularly hard by N. After he died, he made a good speech at school. So about 20 or 30 boys, including me, beat him up every day on his way home, probably for a week. The fool told his dad that he called the police, but it didn't seem very useful. Then his dad picked him up every day.
I later asked my classmates about the car crash, saying that the man driving the van was drunk and had a backseat, but that he was related to his family, so he did not go to prison and paid 400,000.
It says, "I feel like I'm writing a best-selling story." When I started writing, I thought I had nothing to write about, and I thought about a variety of other ways to help myself stay alive. But I feel like I'm writing something that looks like a lot of exaggeration, and I can actually turn it into a novel for sale, or two plays. Does this mean that my experience is different, that I'm born to be an artist, or does it mean that my brain itself alters my memory to be attractive, or something?
When I got to junior high, I met not only the children in the village, but also the people at the South Fort Salt Factory. There's a prison next to the salt factory and where I live. Many are children of prison-related cadres. They look different to us workers' sons and village people, with clearly better skin, better upbringing and better learning.
First year in class is basically the first grade for the South Salt. I'm the second grade. O's so cute, round head, white, we call him an egg. He was a good student in stereotypes, and it seemed that his family's input had taught him a lot of orchids and poetry and that he was very happy to sell these lessons in his class. He was also arrogant, flattering teachers, and often talked about China's submarines around the United States, with all the characteristics that good students should have. But he wasn't very well, and there was a feeling that a good baby in the family wanted to be out of line, so he attracted me to play with him.
But we haven't done anything interesting, and he can't usually come out after school or on weekends, and we've only played games at each other's homes, or we've been talking about things in class. He never dared to talk to me when I was playing pool or throwing paper in class because he was afraid to influence his image of a good child in his adult mind. He was happy to see me mess up in class.
But one thing I remember. In the second year, one day, a poor student in the class, called P, wanted to copy the work of the egg, and he kept asking, and he said, "Go away." He was upset, he started pushing his balls, and then he just pushed it hard, and I got so angry, and I yelled, and then he beat P in front of everyone in the class. My behavior is abnormal. Now remember, the balls are cute. I may have a different feeling about them. I've always liked women, but I'm more protective of balls than ordinary friends.
I'm not in pain now because I beat up P. I'm in pain for another thing.
After this, P's been threatening to kill me by looking for high school students. Everyone told me and P to apologize, but I wouldn't, and I didn't think I was doing it right, but I didn't want P or anyone to think I was afraid of being beaten. After a few days, P's mom secretly found my mom. She honestly told my mother that her son was going to kill me and asked me to apologize in order to avoid more serious consequences. So I was moved by P's mom and went straight to P's and apologized. P was so excited to see me and hugged me. I sat in his room for a while, but I thought about what he put out, and I still didn't want to do what I called a "package". I said, my mom asked me to apologize, and I came. I just didn't tell him about his mom.
Then I thought it would be painful. Because it became clear to me that some of the students in the balls had always been scornful of the poor, and that P had been dissatisfied with the eggs at the time of his or her work, and that he had been beaten by another well-educated student. So when I went to a formal apology, he was so happy that he was respected, and I told him that my apology was not my will. It would have been nice to apologize to him when I went to his house. And I thought I was wrong.
Things like this have been tormenting me. I've been hurting people.
Later on, I had a bad relationship with P. He asked me a lot of questions and I didn't respond.
Second grade, I got mixed up with the hoodlum boss Q. Because I was so tall, I sat in the back row, so close to Q, and then we talked in class, and we played together.
When I first started school, I drew obscene comics, various deviant sexual organs, huge sexual organs, which turned into liquids of all kinds. I showed them to Q, and then he became the propaganda ambassador for my cartoons, and the bad boys in the back row looked at my comics, sure.
There's a boy in class 2 called %, short, very naughty, and he flirts with other classmates every day. He dared not tease a hoodlum like Q, but he dared to tease me. He's been bothering me for a while, and I'm tired and I hit him on the floor on the way from school. I thought he would be honest, but I didn't think he was going to get worse, probably underestimating my threats against him, and being beaten up by me, I started scolding me with all my time. So I made an appointment with him, and I asked Q to call for me, and he said that he could keep everyone from doing it. I went with Q that day, and I punched % down, and then I punched him on the floor, and I wanted to get rid of him once and for all. But I couldn't understand it when Q took me up and threatened everyone back. He only told me the next day that he saw the political teacher coming this way. The result is that % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % % %
Q once told me to go out and talk to him in the basement, where there was a Guan Yu, and he respectfully called the big brother and asked me to say hello. He told me why he fought. When he was very young, a group of people came to the door of his house to talk about the sale, the Tangshan Nan people, and his father, and a couple of guys forced him up, and Q's father pulled his leg off the table and swayed into a fight. That time left a heavy psychological shadow on him and he also started fighting.
After I hit P, Q told me to apologize like everyone else. But I didn't listen to him.
After playing with Q, we played with R. If I remember correctly, 14-year-old R is over 160 pounds. He's not fat, he's not fat, he's fat, he's like a door. Later in high school, I painted a picture of him in qq space, and he started working out and became a piece of cake.
If I remember correctly, I was supposed to be 80 pounds, and R's fun every day was to study how to lift me up. Pick it up, pick it up, stick it in one arm and so on. There was a gym class, and R fought me against my shoulder and ran around the playground.
And actually, playing with them is more painful for me because they've been bullying me. It should be less than a real bullying. I tried to beat him to death before he killed him and fled to Qin.
Q used to urge R to take me to the men's room or the back of the building, to take my pants and say I had a few big ones. R used to fold me around like a toy and ask me if it hurt. Q used to suddenly knock me down and laugh. They buried my feet together. Wait, wait, wait.
One time R was gonna teach me how to smoke, and I said I felt bad about smoking, and that might sting him and make him think I was a good student. He took me to the alley after school and asked me to confess, or he'd beat me up.
I smoke now.
Some people at school can't watch. I've talked about this with Q. But the 14-to- 5-year-old boy who grew up in the industrial development zone must not be very good at solving such problems. Q asked me after school one day, "Did I bully you?" I don't know how to answer, I said no.
I'm not actually a coward. I've had a lot of trouble at school, and I've hardly had any. A couple of times someone was gonna beat me up or Q helped me out. At the time, there were boys in the school who were attached to people who were fighting and even gave money to their brothers. 'Cause I used to fight on my own, and I never thought about who to rely on.
It's actually my mental disorder, and it's my problem until now. Once others are defined in my heart as "friends", I will never express my displeasure or attack. For Q and R, I'm almost 25 years old, still. At first, Q and R tricked me like that, I felt nothing, and then I did get upset, but I couldn't seriously tell them I wasn't happy, and I rarely said I wasn't happy with my friends, which was too difficult. This obstacle kept me unhappy. I have very little way of dealing with everyone around me. My relationship with others will always slip to me and get attacked, and then I'm unhappy.
This is because my attitude towards relationships with others is always negative. And, no matter how lonely or unhappy I am, no matter how much my problems affect me, I have no desire to change my attitude. This may also be a self-destructive tendency, I am not sure. It's not quite the Stockholm definition anyway.
Perhaps I was born to be a lonely artist with a bitterness that was not understood by the world, and only by pursuing great art alone can I achieve the meaning of my life.
N and Q are from a village, playing together when they're naked. After his death, Q was very unstable, and I did not have much contact with him, and shortly thereafter he passed the exam.
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Tangshan Juniors - History of Suffering 02
"Tangshan Youth - History of Violence" 01
The Self-Reflection Programme is a deep-seated self-discovery that encompasses the value and organization of personal memory, dreams and various life-story pieces. Through this plan, we hope to join you in building a shared collective unconscious that will allow us to travel together in an infinite ocean. The plan encourages us to look back at our experiences and to combine the fragmented memories and dreams into a meaningful story in order to better understand ourselves, their past and their future. By sharing and sharing these precious pieces, we can build deeper links and jointly explore the complexity and beauty of human life.