As I said before, my name is Zach DeMarco. I’m in grade 11 at St. Peter’s, located somewhere in the dusty plains of Alberta, Canada. I live in a little town – it’s so little I don’t think it has a real, official name. The population just reached 500, with the birth of twins to a Mrs. Harris about a month ago. She’s 49. She’s declaired her twins a miracle, and now she goes to church every morning.

My Dad is Ralph. He spends most of his time at one of the five local bars. That’s what my town’s famous for – bars, beer, and the fights those two elements produce. My little brother is Ralph Jr. My mom died giving birth to my brother, and my dad was too drunk to think of anything creative to call him. So in my house, it’s me, Ralph, and Ralph. Ralph, Zach and Ralph. RZR. Raaa-Zaaaarrrrr. Okay, I’m done.

St. Peter’s is where I struggle day in and day out. I don’t understand the point of half the stuff they teach us, so I usually mentally categorize all the stuff I learn into two lists: ‘What-the-hell-is-this-shit?’ and ‘when-in-life-will-I-need-to-use-this?’ Some of the things in these lists include parabolas, Shakespearean crap, and algebra. Most of the stuff that fits in one list usually fits in the other.

After I leave St. Peter’s, I head off to Shithole Numero Uno: Marty Mart. One of the only two grocery stores in my town. I’m the youngest worker there and only got in because the assistant manager knows my Dad. Which means he knows my dad’s an unemployed asswipe who blows any cash that gets in his hands on beer or lottery tickets.

Marty Mart, owned by ‘Smarty’ Marty Howard, is located on the Eastern end of town, while our nemesis business counterpart, The Milk Stop, is located on the Western end. We’re always battling it out with The Milk Stop, or I should say they are. I’m just the bucket they all like to kick around when they’re upset over financial losses.

After my 4-9 shift at Shithole Number Uno, I get to go home to Shithole Numero…. uhhh… two. Where my dad watches TV until the early morning hours and neglects Ralph and me, unless he gets up to yell at us for ruining his life. He’s usually drunk when he yells at us, so I know he doesn’t actually mean it. Or maybe he does. What’s that saying? What a drunk man says is what a sober man thinks, or something to that effect.

And that’s it. That’s all about me. Zach DeMarco. My life is a real stinkhole, but I figured it can’t get much worse then that.

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