"It turned out that pot didn't help me to escape my troubles too well anymore and I was actually enjoying doing rebellious things like stealing booze and busting store windows. And nothing ever mattered. I decided within the next month, I'll not sit on my roof and think about jumping, but I'll actually kill myself. And I wasn't going out of this world without knowing what it was actually like to get laid. … And so, during lunch, a rumour started, and by the next day, everyone was waiting for me, to yell and cuss and spit at me, calling me "the retard fucker." I couldn't handle the ridicule, so I got high and drunk and walked down to the train tracks, and laid down and put two big pieces of cement on my chest and legs and I waited for the eleven o-clock train. And the train came closer and closer and closer, and it went on the next track besides me instead of over me. The tension from school had an effect on me, and the train scared me enough to try to rehabilitate myself, and my—my lifting weights and—and mathematics seemed to be improving, so I became less manically depressed, but still never had any friends because I—I hated everyone, for they were so phony."