There was a howling, an anguished unearthly wailing, coming from across the hall that sent me scurrying toward her door. The closet was slightly ajar, leaving strips of light across the otherwise darkened room. I absentmindedly patted the head of the worried dog as I made my way to the bed. She was curled in a tight ball around her pillow, her thin back shaking with the effort to control the shrieks that escaped between clenched teeth.
I sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed the hair back from her face. “What’s wrong, honey...what’s going on?”
“I...can’t...c-c-c-can’t do it!” Her wailing got louder and she writhed in place as if in physical pain.
After a few minutes of petting and coaxing, I managed to figure out the source of the problem – that damn boy. Their relationship had been rocky for several months and he’d broken up with her a week before this meltdown. She seemed fine for awhile; she even turned him down when he came crawling back a day later. He wasn’t what she needed in her life, she said, his path was filled with trouble. And I wholeheartedly agreed.
As I watched my little sister’s heart break over a two year relationship I thanked God, or whoever was listening, that no man had ever broken me down that way. Not that I would even let them, I silently added. I held her, rocked her, told her everything was going to be ok, and finally left her when she was quiet and calm.
She had a few more episodes just like that over the following weeks. I became less patient, less kind, and more irritated with each one. During the last, I informed her that if she woke me with that noise again, I would punch her in the ovaries. I have a startlingly low threshold for handing out sympathy, though I often demand plenty of it from others.
We are polar opposites, my sister and I. Dark versus fair, common sense versus book smarts, earnest versus lackadaisical, right versus wrong,(though the lines on that last one are blurring more as she gets older) fire versus ice – she’s blazing a path, and I’m perpetually frozen.
I admit, she’s everything I wanted to be in high school – pretty, popular, thin, captain of the cheerleading squad (though that was a brief wish, and only in the darkest of hours), driven. She’s never once let me forget, be it intentional or not, that I was then, and am now, everything she aspires not to be. First – a nerdy, unpopular kid that started smoking and drinking to be cool. Now - a single parent, living at home, with no degree.
On my worst days I am bitter for all the opportunity she has laid out in front of her, all the positive attention she receives from our family, and all the scars I bear that she doesn’t. But on my good days, which I’m glad to say are more frequent, I’m proud of her, encouraging of her success, and thankful she wasn’t raised by the same parents. Besides, what aspiring writer isn’t tortured by their own bad choices, the choices of others, or in my case – both? My parents made this prolific bed, but I turned down the covers, fluffed the pillows, and crawled right in. (That smells like a book dedication...)
I also admit she’s everything I despise, and have always attempted to set myself apart from. Shallow, emotional, too accommodating...perfect. As much as I wanted what she had, I didn’t. I suppose the truth of the matter is that we both think we’re better than the other. I make fun of her reading; she makes fun of my clothes. I make fun of her enormous nostrils; she makes fun of my frizzy hair. I make fun of her spelling ability; she makes fun of my blogging.
She was a quiet, sensitive child and against all odds, a daddy’s girl. Why he decided to handle her with kid gloves, I’ll never really know. My mother had the same sensitive personality and he treated her terribly. Whatever the reason, she was spoiled and petted and nurtured into the smart, entitled young woman she is today.
I love my sister, but sometimes I feel as if we’re next door neighbors – waving to each other across the fence and wondering if one or the other is responsible for our missing Sunday papers, never exchanging more than is absolutely necessary. We’re only seven years apart, but sometimes it feels like a lifetime. Our relationship has improved in some ways, gotten worse in others. I keep waiting for that day when we’re old enough to be best friends – I want it (when I’m not imagining punching her), but I don’t think she does. Maybe it’s just her age, maybe one day she’ll want it too.
Each milestone she reaches is a bit of a shock for me, though that may be because they all started happening at once. The first time she got in trouble at school, had sex, did something incredibly stupid and dangerous and laughed about it, got drunk, had her heart broken, applied to colleges – all of that and more crammed into less than two years time. And I think I’ve struggled with it more than she has, more than our own mother.
She just turned 18 last week and she graduates in less than a year. I wonder if, when she leaves, I’ll be the one curled up in the bed wailing with a broken heart. I wonder if I’ll regret not walking across that hall to comfort her more often – for letting bitterness and jealousy shape a large portion of our relationship.
I wonder if she’ll call me – just to talk. Or if she’ll be like me at that age – walking out the door and never looking back until it was absolutely necessary. What bothers me and makes me happy all at once, is that I know, for her, it’ll likely never be necessary.
Suddenly I’m the sensitive one.
Showing posts with label stupid teenagers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stupid teenagers. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Love letter fail
I wasn’t your typical angst ridden, obsessive teenager writing things that would embarrass me later. Unless you want to count the 4evers and hearts scribbled amongst the pages of my diary – but no one would ever read those. Unlike the majority of my female peers, I avoided passing folded squares of notebook paper professing one’s love for some unworthy boy.
Being a bit of a nerd I was, of course, afraid of rejection. But I was also disappointed in the process. In my mind it just wasn’t romantic for the girl to initiate things. My head was full of paperback and movie heroes that swept the geeky girl off her feet, that marveled at her wit and intelligence – not the bloomers peeking out from under her cheerleading skirt.
I didn’t write my first love letter until I was a freshman in high school – until I thought I’d found the guy that would really appreciate it. I never felt the urge until I met him.
His name was Ben and he was a senior. The all American guy – good looking, friendly, charming, athletic, talented, smart. Girls practically drooled on themselves when he walked by and I was no exception. Just to cement his dreamy status, he was one of the leads in Chorus – dropping by during our freshman class to show our guys how it was really done and send the girls into convulsions. That voice combined with the rest of the package was just lethal.
My cousin Ashley was also a senior and they hung out in the same group. We were allowed to eat lunch in the hallways back then and their designated area was by the trophy case. Trespassers were not welcome and invitations were coveted. The guys lounged around in their letterman jackets, leaning against the brightly painted walls like demy gods, goofing off and surveying the girls that sat on the floor in a neat row – their hair perfectly coiffed and their makeup shellacked on with a spatula.
Despite the fact that I was a freshman nerd, I was granted an all access pass. Having a hot cheerleader cousin had its perks. I sat with the senior girls and pretended I wasn’t dying to eat the half bag of Doritos concealed in my book bag, and that I was like, totally interested in what semi-matching outfits everyone was planning to wear the next day. I was nothing like them, but Ashley did her best to help me fit in. My paperbacks were concealed during lunch; traded for whatever girly magazine the rest were pouring over. I got contacts and kept my mouth full of metal closed as much as possible. I let Ashley cake layer upon layer of thick, too dark foundation on my pale skin and line my lips where I actually had none.
For school picture day she loaned me her clothes – a tight, low cut yellow sweater and a short, tight black skirt. She styled my hair into what was supposed to be a replica of her own messy bun, but with my Don King frizz, I ended up looking like the drunken librarian that stuck her finger in an electrical outlet. I remember she was mad because I had to wear my glasses; I’d ripped my contact that morning. Consequently, my mother refused to buy the packet because I looked like a nerdy baby hooker, and the only record that the day ever happened is a faded proof photo stuffed in a shoe box among my other macabre school things.
Ashley also took it upon herself to tow me along to events I would never have gone to otherwise – parties, college baseball games, trips to the mall. I was largely ignored by the guys, but her girlfriends always treated me kindly. They’d all grown up using our Papa’s house as a summer retreat and to them I was already a fixture.
The first time I really spoke to Ben was at a local college’s baseball game. We never sat in the stands, preferring instead to park by the surrounding fence and tailgate. Papa allowed Ashley to use his Expedition and she packed it with as many of her friends as possible. I, of course, always ended up in the last row.
That particular night I was a bit drunk, though on what I can’t remember. I climbed onto the middle seat of the SUV to sit for awhile because I was tired of standing. A nice breeze was coming through the open door on my right and I was gazing at the baseball field through the front windshield, not really seeing anything, a half smile on my face. The back left door opened a few minutes later and Ben hopped onto the seat next to me, throwing his arm over the back of the seat.
“Hey Alyson”, he said smiling.
“Hi”, I replied, more than a little awed. He was so close the sleeve of his letterman jacket brushed my cheek when I turned to look up at him.
I wish I could remember every detail of our insignificant conversation, because it was the beginning of the end for me. When he was among the senior lunch crowd or a teacher’s aide in chorus, there was a barrier. But in that backseat he was just a guy, being nice to a girl who should have known better.
We drank a beer together – him taking large comfortable swallows, while I struggled to keep my tiny sips down. I confessed my complete ignorance about baseball and he explained a few key points, gesturing toward the game through the windshield while I watched his lips move. In the back of my mind I knew he was just being nice. He was nice to everyone. But the alcohol combined with a teenage girl’s need for acceptance won the “does he, does he not” battle. I was suddenly convinced that he liked me.
For the next few weeks I talked Ashley’s ear off about him – without much success. She never was one to pay attention unless the subject was one of her favorites: Ashley, what you could do for Ashley, or shopping. She largely ignored my hints that I wanted her to talk to him on my behalf. I know now that was likely due to the fact that she’d already infringed upon “the in crowd” enough, just by having me around.
I watched him in the halls and in the classroom – always waiting on him to notice me again, to swing an arm around my shoulders liked he’d done that night. But of course he didn’t. Every once in awhile I would get a half wave or a quick smile as he strode by, occasionally followed by a distracted “hey Alyson.”
I’d had crushes before, but I was absolutely devastated by his fleeting “moment of interest” and then nothing. That was when I decided that I should tell him exactly how I felt...in a letter.
The only letters I’d ever written before were to my Grandmother, a pen pal, and my diary. I knew nothing about winning a boy’s affection through words, but I was convinced I could do a better job of it than other girls my age. A smart guy like him would surely be more appreciative of a winning display of vocabulary, as well as a profession of deep feelings, than any of that check yes or no bullshit.
I sat Indian style on my bed for hours, alternately chewing my pen and staring into space. It had to be perfect – my words had to move him. And so I finally wrote:
Ben,
I had a wonderful time talking to you at the ballgame a few weeks ago. You aren’t like the other guys at this school; you’re definitely a lot nicer. I think you’re super hot and really sweet. I’d be ecstatic if you would give me a chance to be your girlfriend. If you aren’t inclined to date me, I believe I could settle for being your friend.
Think about it and let me know.
Love,
A
(I pieced that together from scraps of rough drafts that I found in a shoebox. The actual letter, the one I passed onto him, was perhaps a little different. Either way, it’s painfully obvious that writing love letters was (is) not my forte, no matter how highly I thought of my academic prowess.)
There was a freshman named Angela who was on very good terms with the senior athletic crowd. She was a great big barrel of a girl – tall, with a giant muffin top and pancake-like breasts. Her blonde hair was always cut in a boyish way, shaved across the back of the neck, with frizzy bangs bouncing across her forehead. I never thought about lesbians when I was that age, but now I’m relatively sure that Angela was the first one to make my acquaintance.
Her sister was a gorgeous senior, just like Ashley (only a natural blonde; not a peroxide one with “fashionable” black roots). Though she was often a part of the lunch group, she spent most of her between class times with the jocks – Ben included. I decided that she would be the best one to give him my note. I knew she wasn’t interested enough to read it and she wasn’t the sort of girl to make fun of people or start rumors.
We had chorus together every other day. I waited until we were there on a Friday to explain the situation. I hoped that it would be easier for Ben to receive the note and read it without any of his friends noticing, what with everyone leaving for the weekend.
“Angela...do you think you could give this to Ben for me?”
To her credit, she looked neither surprised nor pitying when she took the proffered note and said “sure thing”. No questions asked.
The following Monday I asked if she gave it to him and she said she had, but she offered no more information. I felt awkward asking anything else, so I waited.
A week went by and nothing happened – except that I didn’t see him very often, and when I did it was just in passing. The seniors had plenty of things to keep them busy since the end of the year was drawing to a close. It wasn’t until he finally made an appearance to help with my chorus class that I received my long awaited answer.
As I stared at him from my chair in the top row of the soprano risers, I know I looked like an anxious, wide eyed child. He smiled a sad little smile and shook his head at me. He looked genuinely sorry and he might have even mouthed the word, but my eyes had already blurred with tears.
We never once spoke about it and I spent my summer away from Ashley and her senior friends, avoiding the possibility of running into him. I was devastated by the rejection, of course, but more than that...I was angry at the anticlimactic end of it all. Shouldn’t there have been more drama over my first real profession of love for a boy – accepted or not? Wasn’t something else supposed to happen?
But over fifteen years later, I realize that I was lucky to have such a gracious, anticlimactic crush. And that I never again got the urge to write another love letter. I doubt, even at this age, that I'd be able to fill an entire page with flowery words and phrases. I wasn't that sort of girl, and I suppose I'm not that sort of woman either. "Let's get to the point, shall we!" Romantic, yes?
Ben owns a bar in our area now and I see him every once in awhile. He treats me like an old friend – sitting beside me and catching up on family and mutual acquaintances. When he came to my cousin’s wedding last year we all hung out on my patio, drinking shots of Jim Beam and laughing.
That night he put his arm around me while we stood around our friends and I thought about the last time he’d done so, in the back of my Papa’s Expedition, and I wondered if he remembered it too. I’m not the same girl that mooned over him then, it’s true, but he’ll always be special to me – firstly, because he received the only love letter I ever wrote, however miserable it was, and second, because he never once made fun of me.
Before he left that night, while our arms were still hooked around each other’s waists, he made a comment that he hadn’t realized I had a daughter. I looked up at him and smiled. The urge to ask him about the letter, about what he remembered from that time, had been with me all night. We were older, it wouldn’t hurt anymore, and I was simply curious. But rather than asking outright, I decided to remind him of my past interest in my own unique way.
“She’s four”, I replied to his comment.
“Who’s her dad?”
It was just the opening I’d been waiting for. I breathed a heavy sigh and rolled my eyes a bit.
“It could have been you, you know”, I said with exaggerated regret. We stared at each other for a moment – then suddenly burst out laughing at the same time.
Yes, I thought, he definitely remembered.
Being a bit of a nerd I was, of course, afraid of rejection. But I was also disappointed in the process. In my mind it just wasn’t romantic for the girl to initiate things. My head was full of paperback and movie heroes that swept the geeky girl off her feet, that marveled at her wit and intelligence – not the bloomers peeking out from under her cheerleading skirt.
I didn’t write my first love letter until I was a freshman in high school – until I thought I’d found the guy that would really appreciate it. I never felt the urge until I met him.
His name was Ben and he was a senior. The all American guy – good looking, friendly, charming, athletic, talented, smart. Girls practically drooled on themselves when he walked by and I was no exception. Just to cement his dreamy status, he was one of the leads in Chorus – dropping by during our freshman class to show our guys how it was really done and send the girls into convulsions. That voice combined with the rest of the package was just lethal.
My cousin Ashley was also a senior and they hung out in the same group. We were allowed to eat lunch in the hallways back then and their designated area was by the trophy case. Trespassers were not welcome and invitations were coveted. The guys lounged around in their letterman jackets, leaning against the brightly painted walls like demy gods, goofing off and surveying the girls that sat on the floor in a neat row – their hair perfectly coiffed and their makeup shellacked on with a spatula.
Despite the fact that I was a freshman nerd, I was granted an all access pass. Having a hot cheerleader cousin had its perks. I sat with the senior girls and pretended I wasn’t dying to eat the half bag of Doritos concealed in my book bag, and that I was like, totally interested in what semi-matching outfits everyone was planning to wear the next day. I was nothing like them, but Ashley did her best to help me fit in. My paperbacks were concealed during lunch; traded for whatever girly magazine the rest were pouring over. I got contacts and kept my mouth full of metal closed as much as possible. I let Ashley cake layer upon layer of thick, too dark foundation on my pale skin and line my lips where I actually had none.
For school picture day she loaned me her clothes – a tight, low cut yellow sweater and a short, tight black skirt. She styled my hair into what was supposed to be a replica of her own messy bun, but with my Don King frizz, I ended up looking like the drunken librarian that stuck her finger in an electrical outlet. I remember she was mad because I had to wear my glasses; I’d ripped my contact that morning. Consequently, my mother refused to buy the packet because I looked like a nerdy baby hooker, and the only record that the day ever happened is a faded proof photo stuffed in a shoe box among my other macabre school things.
Ashley also took it upon herself to tow me along to events I would never have gone to otherwise – parties, college baseball games, trips to the mall. I was largely ignored by the guys, but her girlfriends always treated me kindly. They’d all grown up using our Papa’s house as a summer retreat and to them I was already a fixture.
The first time I really spoke to Ben was at a local college’s baseball game. We never sat in the stands, preferring instead to park by the surrounding fence and tailgate. Papa allowed Ashley to use his Expedition and she packed it with as many of her friends as possible. I, of course, always ended up in the last row.
That particular night I was a bit drunk, though on what I can’t remember. I climbed onto the middle seat of the SUV to sit for awhile because I was tired of standing. A nice breeze was coming through the open door on my right and I was gazing at the baseball field through the front windshield, not really seeing anything, a half smile on my face. The back left door opened a few minutes later and Ben hopped onto the seat next to me, throwing his arm over the back of the seat.
“Hey Alyson”, he said smiling.
“Hi”, I replied, more than a little awed. He was so close the sleeve of his letterman jacket brushed my cheek when I turned to look up at him.
I wish I could remember every detail of our insignificant conversation, because it was the beginning of the end for me. When he was among the senior lunch crowd or a teacher’s aide in chorus, there was a barrier. But in that backseat he was just a guy, being nice to a girl who should have known better.
We drank a beer together – him taking large comfortable swallows, while I struggled to keep my tiny sips down. I confessed my complete ignorance about baseball and he explained a few key points, gesturing toward the game through the windshield while I watched his lips move. In the back of my mind I knew he was just being nice. He was nice to everyone. But the alcohol combined with a teenage girl’s need for acceptance won the “does he, does he not” battle. I was suddenly convinced that he liked me.
For the next few weeks I talked Ashley’s ear off about him – without much success. She never was one to pay attention unless the subject was one of her favorites: Ashley, what you could do for Ashley, or shopping. She largely ignored my hints that I wanted her to talk to him on my behalf. I know now that was likely due to the fact that she’d already infringed upon “the in crowd” enough, just by having me around.
I watched him in the halls and in the classroom – always waiting on him to notice me again, to swing an arm around my shoulders liked he’d done that night. But of course he didn’t. Every once in awhile I would get a half wave or a quick smile as he strode by, occasionally followed by a distracted “hey Alyson.”
I’d had crushes before, but I was absolutely devastated by his fleeting “moment of interest” and then nothing. That was when I decided that I should tell him exactly how I felt...in a letter.
The only letters I’d ever written before were to my Grandmother, a pen pal, and my diary. I knew nothing about winning a boy’s affection through words, but I was convinced I could do a better job of it than other girls my age. A smart guy like him would surely be more appreciative of a winning display of vocabulary, as well as a profession of deep feelings, than any of that check yes or no bullshit.
I sat Indian style on my bed for hours, alternately chewing my pen and staring into space. It had to be perfect – my words had to move him. And so I finally wrote:
Ben,
I had a wonderful time talking to you at the ballgame a few weeks ago. You aren’t like the other guys at this school; you’re definitely a lot nicer. I think you’re super hot and really sweet. I’d be ecstatic if you would give me a chance to be your girlfriend. If you aren’t inclined to date me, I believe I could settle for being your friend.
Think about it and let me know.
Love,
A
(I pieced that together from scraps of rough drafts that I found in a shoebox. The actual letter, the one I passed onto him, was perhaps a little different. Either way, it’s painfully obvious that writing love letters was (is) not my forte, no matter how highly I thought of my academic prowess.)
There was a freshman named Angela who was on very good terms with the senior athletic crowd. She was a great big barrel of a girl – tall, with a giant muffin top and pancake-like breasts. Her blonde hair was always cut in a boyish way, shaved across the back of the neck, with frizzy bangs bouncing across her forehead. I never thought about lesbians when I was that age, but now I’m relatively sure that Angela was the first one to make my acquaintance.
Her sister was a gorgeous senior, just like Ashley (only a natural blonde; not a peroxide one with “fashionable” black roots). Though she was often a part of the lunch group, she spent most of her between class times with the jocks – Ben included. I decided that she would be the best one to give him my note. I knew she wasn’t interested enough to read it and she wasn’t the sort of girl to make fun of people or start rumors.
We had chorus together every other day. I waited until we were there on a Friday to explain the situation. I hoped that it would be easier for Ben to receive the note and read it without any of his friends noticing, what with everyone leaving for the weekend.
“Angela...do you think you could give this to Ben for me?”
To her credit, she looked neither surprised nor pitying when she took the proffered note and said “sure thing”. No questions asked.
The following Monday I asked if she gave it to him and she said she had, but she offered no more information. I felt awkward asking anything else, so I waited.
A week went by and nothing happened – except that I didn’t see him very often, and when I did it was just in passing. The seniors had plenty of things to keep them busy since the end of the year was drawing to a close. It wasn’t until he finally made an appearance to help with my chorus class that I received my long awaited answer.
As I stared at him from my chair in the top row of the soprano risers, I know I looked like an anxious, wide eyed child. He smiled a sad little smile and shook his head at me. He looked genuinely sorry and he might have even mouthed the word, but my eyes had already blurred with tears.
We never once spoke about it and I spent my summer away from Ashley and her senior friends, avoiding the possibility of running into him. I was devastated by the rejection, of course, but more than that...I was angry at the anticlimactic end of it all. Shouldn’t there have been more drama over my first real profession of love for a boy – accepted or not? Wasn’t something else supposed to happen?
But over fifteen years later, I realize that I was lucky to have such a gracious, anticlimactic crush. And that I never again got the urge to write another love letter. I doubt, even at this age, that I'd be able to fill an entire page with flowery words and phrases. I wasn't that sort of girl, and I suppose I'm not that sort of woman either. "Let's get to the point, shall we!" Romantic, yes?
Ben owns a bar in our area now and I see him every once in awhile. He treats me like an old friend – sitting beside me and catching up on family and mutual acquaintances. When he came to my cousin’s wedding last year we all hung out on my patio, drinking shots of Jim Beam and laughing.
That night he put his arm around me while we stood around our friends and I thought about the last time he’d done so, in the back of my Papa’s Expedition, and I wondered if he remembered it too. I’m not the same girl that mooned over him then, it’s true, but he’ll always be special to me – firstly, because he received the only love letter I ever wrote, however miserable it was, and second, because he never once made fun of me.
Before he left that night, while our arms were still hooked around each other’s waists, he made a comment that he hadn’t realized I had a daughter. I looked up at him and smiled. The urge to ask him about the letter, about what he remembered from that time, had been with me all night. We were older, it wouldn’t hurt anymore, and I was simply curious. But rather than asking outright, I decided to remind him of my past interest in my own unique way.
“She’s four”, I replied to his comment.
“Who’s her dad?”
It was just the opening I’d been waiting for. I breathed a heavy sigh and rolled my eyes a bit.
“It could have been you, you know”, I said with exaggerated regret. We stared at each other for a moment – then suddenly burst out laughing at the same time.
Yes, I thought, he definitely remembered.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Hypothetically speaking
Life is all about choices.
After your choice comes the inevitable ‘follow through’. You take some sort of action – be it passive or aggressive. And then comes everyone’s favorite part: consequences. Right or wrong, good or bad – everything has a consequence. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Yes?
Alright then. Let’s just say that, hypothetically, you know someone that knows someone. And the someone you know works with a woman. Allegedly this woman is a nice woman, if a little nerve grating from time to time. However, as much as the someone you know likes this woman they cannot help but be a tad disturbed by her ... habits.
See, this someone you know was in the bathroom they share with this woman. They were a bit bored, because sometimes the gopher shits take awhile, so they decided to go through the drawers of a cabinet right in front of the toilet. Previously they’d only ever opened the top drawer because it’s where they store their feminine hygiene products, but that day they were curious. Upon opening the bottom drawer they noticed a box of wet wipes and they were pleased because everyone knows that wet wipes are the best invention ever, second only to The Bullet (The zzzzzzz kind, not the POW kind).
But upon further investigation they noticed several clear, plastic Ziploc bags stashed behind the wet wipe box. The bags appeared to have been there for awhile, condensation was visible on the inside plastic. Upon even further investigation it was noted that these bags contained wadded up pairs of women’s underwear matted together with, well, shit and mold. They then yelled, “Holy mother of gawd! *gag*”
Now, it’s safe to say that this someone you know got what they deserved for being nosy: disgust, embarrassment, and the hardship of keeping a straight face every time someone says “shit” in the office. However, you can also argue that this is a shared bathroom and the drawers are now communal property. (And by drawers I mean the pull out kind, not the shitty kind.)
Now, herein lies the problem: Does this person you know tell the woman that they know about her dirty little secret? Do they hint around so that she cleans out the drawers (both kinds, if we’re being technical)? Or do they continue to keep silent and check to make sure they are still there, turning it into a running joke with their friends: “Who had $20 on three months? You lose! It’s been 4 and they’re still there! Who wants $10 on ‘the collection will be added to by 5 months’?”
Whatever choice they make, there will be another consequence and another. Until eventually they’re old enough to understand what it’s like to lose control of their bowels and start shitting in their own drawers, though hopefully they dispose of them properly. Is life depressing or what?
How are some people so decisive when there are all these choices?
Let’s try another one. Something a little different.
Let’s say that, hypothetically, you haven’t had sex since New Year’s Eve. And even though it was sex, it wasn’t great sex. And the guy was a complete tool bag man whore masquerading as a nice guy and he stabbed your clitoris, repeatedly and viciously, like the Romans stabbed Caesar. Et tu Bruté?
Let’s also say that you’re trying this new thing called getting to know a person before you fuck their brains out. You’re trying to be mature. You’re trying not to act on a sexual whim or 8 liquor drinks and a bong hit. You kind of want to remember who, what, when, where, and how the hell he did that thing with his...whatever. You’re not slutting it up anymore. High five to well-behaved, classy you!
However, here’s the crux of the matter: You’re dying. Not literally dying, but seriously, if you don’t get screwed by something that doesn’t take batteries they might put you in a mental hospital and change your middle name to ARGHHHHHHHHH!, because that’s all you ever say anymore. Everyone thinks you’re bipolar or schizophrenic, but you aren’t. You’re suffering from NoDick Disease. To complicate matters, you’re actually about to get more alone time than you ever get. Also, you may or may not have a ridiculous crush on someone that you totally shouldn’t have a crush on and you couldn’t sleep with them right now even if you wanted to.
So do you go back on your promise to yourself, go out and pick up a six foot, green eyed cure with a David Copperfield complex (Surprise! He’s in there!)? Or do you continue biting the heads off of random passersby, because they look like they just got plowed, until you finally meet someone, date them, and then fuck their brains out?
If you just do it you may get satisfied, but then again you may not. Either way, you’ll eventually be slapping yourself silly because you totally ruined your well-behaved, classy plan.
The consequences are a motherfucker on this one either way you go, right? Maybe you should just go back to your old routine: Do it. Like it. Don’t care. Suffer the consequences. Still not care. Do it again. But no, it’s still a cycle! Sigh.
Last one. This is super hard, you guys. I know. My head hurts too.
Let’s say that, hypothetically, you and your five year old kid live with your mom and teenage sister. Said teenage sister is, like, ohmigawd, so perfect! You’ve always tried to relate to her, but it makes your head hurt. Until recently you never really had anything to talk about.
But now all of a sudden you’re being sought after for sexual counseling and advice, and being asked to fill the role of the mom that's popping Xanax like skittles and sticking her head in the sand because “no-one-in-this-house-has-sex-no-one-in-this-house-has-sex-no-one-in-this-house-will-ever-have-sex-nononononono” by taking said teenager to the health department for birth control. And then your nosy nature, combined with all of this sisterly bonding, suddenly culminates in the form of a cell phone video you wish to gawd you had never opened *gag* vagina *gag*...hold on a minute, please.
Ok. *deep breaths* Lalalalalalabia. In-out-in-out. *gag*
Sorry. Let’s continue.
So now you’re supposed to be the cool older sister that’s completely ok with this pimply fucker hanging around all the time and railing your sibling and talking about it to all of his friends, but you aren’t allowed to talk about it to your friends because she’s, like, ohmigawd, so perfect and no one can ever know. And she starts fucking up all the time and getting caught doing stupid shit, but everyone brushes it under the rug and she never gets punished, unlike you at that age, who totally got locked in the guest room and bitch slapped into next week.
So you take all of that angst and confusion and combine it with this most recent issue.
You’re in charge while the teenager goes to the prom. You’re supposed to monitor the time she comes in and make sure there’s no funny business going on. On one hand, you were totally doing funny business at that age and thoroughly enjoying it. On the other hand, you totally got knocked up and had to move back in with your mother. You understand the shit she’s going through, but you feel like you have to be the adult in this situation, ok.
She actually comes home at a decent hour, boyfriend in tow, to watch movies. She’s also brought along a friend and her friend’s date too. You’re completely fine with this because: A) you’re sitting on your porch getting shitfaced drunk on wine while having a fascinating four hour long phone conversation with a stranger and B) what are they possibly going to do with you RIGHT there and with their friends RIGHT there.
Everything is fine. Everyone leaves. You pass out. You wake up the next morning, pick up the kid from the non-in-laws, and park her in the other room to play while you nurse your killer headache.
But that evening you’re cleaning up the kid’s playroom and there’s a bright yellow wrapper on the floor. You pick it up and it’s an empty, torn open Trojan condom packet. You gasp and yell for the obviously guilty party. She comes in, angry at being interrupted from staring at herself in the mirror. You hold up the evidence and she immediately claims, “That’s not mine!”
“Who the fuck does it belong to then”, you say.
She rattles off the names of her friends that were there last night.
You blanch. “You mean to tell me that you let them fuck on my daughter’s playroom floor?”
“I didn’t know”, she whispers.
You are livid for many reasons: How dare someone else get laid in this house when you aren’t getting any? How dare some teenage kid deliberately bring her boyfriend over and secretly have sex in this house? How disrespectful is that? How dare your sister let them do it? IN YOUR KID’S PLAYROOM where she’s been playing ALL DAY! There could be jizz hiding anywhere! In her kitchen set teacups! You were sitting on the porch. Right there!
Before you have time to think about anything else, you decide not to mention it to your mother. Then later, once it’s percolated, you realize a few things: You’re an adult. You were technically responsible for these kids. Maybe you should say something and let them suffer the consequences, just like you had to when you were a disrespectful little shit. Or maybe you should continue to be the cooler, understanding older sister.
You demand an apology from the teenage friend and force your sister to listen to three, randomly spaced, thirty minute monologues about how much she sucks, her friends suck, her boyfriend sucks, and it sucks being an adult that has to deal with this shit and FUCK, you don’t want to think about it anymore.
And yet you continue to wonder, even after its pretty much over, if you should have done things differently. Because right now the consequences you’re suffering from are a slightly guilty conscious and the urge to vomit.
What kind of choices would you guys have made?
Of course, this is all completely hypothetical.
After your choice comes the inevitable ‘follow through’. You take some sort of action – be it passive or aggressive. And then comes everyone’s favorite part: consequences. Right or wrong, good or bad – everything has a consequence. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Yes?
Alright then. Let’s just say that, hypothetically, you know someone that knows someone. And the someone you know works with a woman. Allegedly this woman is a nice woman, if a little nerve grating from time to time. However, as much as the someone you know likes this woman they cannot help but be a tad disturbed by her ... habits.
See, this someone you know was in the bathroom they share with this woman. They were a bit bored, because sometimes the gopher shits take awhile, so they decided to go through the drawers of a cabinet right in front of the toilet. Previously they’d only ever opened the top drawer because it’s where they store their feminine hygiene products, but that day they were curious. Upon opening the bottom drawer they noticed a box of wet wipes and they were pleased because everyone knows that wet wipes are the best invention ever, second only to The Bullet (The zzzzzzz kind, not the POW kind).
But upon further investigation they noticed several clear, plastic Ziploc bags stashed behind the wet wipe box. The bags appeared to have been there for awhile, condensation was visible on the inside plastic. Upon even further investigation it was noted that these bags contained wadded up pairs of women’s underwear matted together with, well, shit and mold. They then yelled, “Holy mother of gawd! *gag*”
Now, it’s safe to say that this someone you know got what they deserved for being nosy: disgust, embarrassment, and the hardship of keeping a straight face every time someone says “shit” in the office. However, you can also argue that this is a shared bathroom and the drawers are now communal property. (And by drawers I mean the pull out kind, not the shitty kind.)
Now, herein lies the problem: Does this person you know tell the woman that they know about her dirty little secret? Do they hint around so that she cleans out the drawers (both kinds, if we’re being technical)? Or do they continue to keep silent and check to make sure they are still there, turning it into a running joke with their friends: “Who had $20 on three months? You lose! It’s been 4 and they’re still there! Who wants $10 on ‘the collection will be added to by 5 months’?”
Whatever choice they make, there will be another consequence and another. Until eventually they’re old enough to understand what it’s like to lose control of their bowels and start shitting in their own drawers, though hopefully they dispose of them properly. Is life depressing or what?
How are some people so decisive when there are all these choices?
Let’s try another one. Something a little different.
Let’s say that, hypothetically, you haven’t had sex since New Year’s Eve. And even though it was sex, it wasn’t great sex. And the guy was a complete tool bag man whore masquerading as a nice guy and he stabbed your clitoris, repeatedly and viciously, like the Romans stabbed Caesar. Et tu Bruté?
Let’s also say that you’re trying this new thing called getting to know a person before you fuck their brains out. You’re trying to be mature. You’re trying not to act on a sexual whim or 8 liquor drinks and a bong hit. You kind of want to remember who, what, when, where, and how the hell he did that thing with his...whatever. You’re not slutting it up anymore. High five to well-behaved, classy you!
However, here’s the crux of the matter: You’re dying. Not literally dying, but seriously, if you don’t get screwed by something that doesn’t take batteries they might put you in a mental hospital and change your middle name to ARGHHHHHHHHH!, because that’s all you ever say anymore. Everyone thinks you’re bipolar or schizophrenic, but you aren’t. You’re suffering from NoDick Disease. To complicate matters, you’re actually about to get more alone time than you ever get. Also, you may or may not have a ridiculous crush on someone that you totally shouldn’t have a crush on and you couldn’t sleep with them right now even if you wanted to.
So do you go back on your promise to yourself, go out and pick up a six foot, green eyed cure with a David Copperfield complex (Surprise! He’s in there!)? Or do you continue biting the heads off of random passersby, because they look like they just got plowed, until you finally meet someone, date them, and then fuck their brains out?
If you just do it you may get satisfied, but then again you may not. Either way, you’ll eventually be slapping yourself silly because you totally ruined your well-behaved, classy plan.
The consequences are a motherfucker on this one either way you go, right? Maybe you should just go back to your old routine: Do it. Like it. Don’t care. Suffer the consequences. Still not care. Do it again. But no, it’s still a cycle! Sigh.
Last one. This is super hard, you guys. I know. My head hurts too.
Let’s say that, hypothetically, you and your five year old kid live with your mom and teenage sister. Said teenage sister is, like, ohmigawd, so perfect! You’ve always tried to relate to her, but it makes your head hurt. Until recently you never really had anything to talk about.
But now all of a sudden you’re being sought after for sexual counseling and advice, and being asked to fill the role of the mom that's popping Xanax like skittles and sticking her head in the sand because “no-one-in-this-house-has-sex-no-one-in-this-house-has-sex-no-one-in-this-house-will-ever-have-sex-nononononono” by taking said teenager to the health department for birth control. And then your nosy nature, combined with all of this sisterly bonding, suddenly culminates in the form of a cell phone video you wish to gawd you had never opened *gag* vagina *gag*...hold on a minute, please.
Ok. *deep breaths* Lalalalalalabia. In-out-in-out. *gag*
Sorry. Let’s continue.
So now you’re supposed to be the cool older sister that’s completely ok with this pimply fucker hanging around all the time and railing your sibling and talking about it to all of his friends, but you aren’t allowed to talk about it to your friends because she’s, like, ohmigawd, so perfect and no one can ever know. And she starts fucking up all the time and getting caught doing stupid shit, but everyone brushes it under the rug and she never gets punished, unlike you at that age, who totally got locked in the guest room and bitch slapped into next week.
So you take all of that angst and confusion and combine it with this most recent issue.
You’re in charge while the teenager goes to the prom. You’re supposed to monitor the time she comes in and make sure there’s no funny business going on. On one hand, you were totally doing funny business at that age and thoroughly enjoying it. On the other hand, you totally got knocked up and had to move back in with your mother. You understand the shit she’s going through, but you feel like you have to be the adult in this situation, ok.
She actually comes home at a decent hour, boyfriend in tow, to watch movies. She’s also brought along a friend and her friend’s date too. You’re completely fine with this because: A) you’re sitting on your porch getting shitfaced drunk on wine while having a fascinating four hour long phone conversation with a stranger and B) what are they possibly going to do with you RIGHT there and with their friends RIGHT there.
Everything is fine. Everyone leaves. You pass out. You wake up the next morning, pick up the kid from the non-in-laws, and park her in the other room to play while you nurse your killer headache.
But that evening you’re cleaning up the kid’s playroom and there’s a bright yellow wrapper on the floor. You pick it up and it’s an empty, torn open Trojan condom packet. You gasp and yell for the obviously guilty party. She comes in, angry at being interrupted from staring at herself in the mirror. You hold up the evidence and she immediately claims, “That’s not mine!”
“Who the fuck does it belong to then”, you say.
She rattles off the names of her friends that were there last night.
You blanch. “You mean to tell me that you let them fuck on my daughter’s playroom floor?”
“I didn’t know”, she whispers.
You are livid for many reasons: How dare someone else get laid in this house when you aren’t getting any? How dare some teenage kid deliberately bring her boyfriend over and secretly have sex in this house? How disrespectful is that? How dare your sister let them do it? IN YOUR KID’S PLAYROOM where she’s been playing ALL DAY! There could be jizz hiding anywhere! In her kitchen set teacups! You were sitting on the porch. Right there!
Before you have time to think about anything else, you decide not to mention it to your mother. Then later, once it’s percolated, you realize a few things: You’re an adult. You were technically responsible for these kids. Maybe you should say something and let them suffer the consequences, just like you had to when you were a disrespectful little shit. Or maybe you should continue to be the cooler, understanding older sister.
You demand an apology from the teenage friend and force your sister to listen to three, randomly spaced, thirty minute monologues about how much she sucks, her friends suck, her boyfriend sucks, and it sucks being an adult that has to deal with this shit and FUCK, you don’t want to think about it anymore.
And yet you continue to wonder, even after its pretty much over, if you should have done things differently. Because right now the consequences you’re suffering from are a slightly guilty conscious and the urge to vomit.
What kind of choices would you guys have made?
Of course, this is all completely hypothetical.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
If I call this "Highway to Hell" would that be too obvious?
Everyone is on their own road to discovery and enlightenment.
Some roads are smooth and black with perfectly straight yellow lines. Some roads have a pot hole or two, a few curves, and maybe the lines are a bit faded. Some are never ending dirt roads under a canopy of trees, the light never quite penetrating through. Some are four lane freeways crisscrossed with bridges, but with plenty of signs to point the way.
I’m going to hazard a guess that my metaphorical road looks a bit like this:
It’s scenic. Around every turn there’s something beautiful. The view from that road is so spectacular that I can’t imagine choosing another route.
Until, that is, those bastard ass rocks start falling from above and smashing around my car that has one too many miles on it, a bumper that doesn’t match, and a fuel tank that’s always hovering close to empty. Oh, and sometimes the gas pedal gets stuck and I go careening around those deadly curves, desperately trying to keep things in line so that I don’t go plummeting off the side of this scenic mountain.
So basically what I’m saying is my road to discovery and enlightenment is trying to kill me. Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? Just this past weekend will do.
*Note: If you don’t want to read about my vagina. Stop. Reading. Now.
Friday night I was in the shower. Naked, because that’s how I roll.
I was shaving my legs and my bizness (for you newbies, that means vagina) because Cosmo says it’s the way to a man’swallet heart...and also I may have let things run a little rampant lately. I mean, it’s not like anyone has been down there checking out the accommodations recently! Don’t give me any shit. Anyway, so I was shaving and I thought to myself, “Self, why not try something a little new and sassy. You can always go back to bald if you don’t like it. Let’s make it PRETTY! OOWA OOWA! Raise the roof!”
Like you don’t dance in the shower and talk to yourself in your head? Psssh, whatever.
“Design, design...what kind of design?”
Animals were out, because I’m not that talented. A circle would be weird, like a button, and that might distract from the real, more important button. Also, it made me think of that phrase “button, button, who’s got the button” and I’d likely giggle at in inopportune time and they’d think I was laughing at them and get all offended, like men do.
That left me with two options: heart or lightening bolt. Both of those are SO done, but I don’t have the dexterity to do a skull and crossbones. With the lightening bolt I could take my pants off and be all “SHAZAM!” With the heart...aw, fuck it. I did the heart because it was the simplest. Nothing says love like a heart made of hair.
I started shaving the damn heart into my bizness and I was really concentrating. I had one leg propped on the side of the tub and the shower curtain open a bit for more light. Things were trucking along smoothly for a minute. Then, with one side down and one side to go, disaster struck.
WHAM! The door flew open and smacked into the wall, followed by the unmistakable sound of my sister in a rage.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t really concentrate on her distress as I was too busy with my own. When the door flew open and she started yelling like a banshee, it scared the living daylights out of me. I jumped and my hand jerked up at the same time, causing me to slice my bizness like a Christmas ham. I SLICED my BIZNESS.
On a pain scale of 1-10, I’d give it an 11 ½. Coming in right after the discontinuation of my make up at a solid 9 ½.
Had I known there were people behind her in the hallway I never would have screamed those sailor inspired obscenities, nor would I have opened up the curtain all the way and thrown the razor at her head. Maybe.
The cut was bad, but not nearly as bad as the bloody half heart. Symbolic maybe?
It was a good thing that I didn’t hook up with that guy later on that night. How does one explain a bandaged vagina?
Then there was Saturday.
My sister and I were supposed to leave early that morning and go shopping, but I was so hungover that I couldn’t leave my bed until almost noon. Of course that meant by the time we got downtown it was a madhouse.
The first place we went to was a toy store. There was barely enough room to move. Screaming kids and angry parents crammed the aisles, shoving each other and ripping off limbs when necessary.
I’m a fast shopper. I go in with a list, I get what’s on it, and I get the fuck out. So while my disinterested sister pushed the most busted ass shopping cart known to man behind me (seriously, it sounded like someone was shooting bee bees at a tin can every time the wheels went round and it had a “limp”), I plowed through the people and grabbed.
I was looking at a display of toy guns, you know, the kind that shoots foam dart thingies? I squatted down and found the one I was looking for on the bottom shelf. I reached for it at the same time as this kid, who I thought was after something else. He couldn’t have been more than 14 or 15 with shaggy black hair and he had a spiky belt to cut himself on if his pocket knife ever got dull.
We glared at each other. I yanked, he yanked, and we glared some more. I was too hungover to hang on much longer, all that yanking was making my head hurt. So I did the only thing I could. I accidentally on purpose tripped and stomped on his toes, causing him to yell and let go of the gun.
“Go Lee”, I yelled and took off around the corner. My poor sister tried to keep up with the busted buggy, leaving a trail of noise for him to follow. “Clang, pop, clang, pop, clang, pop.” He came after us, shouting and for no apparent reason other than being on the edge of sanity’s cliff; I turned around and pointed the toy gun at him, mouthed “motha fucka” while I did a little foot to foot dance, and left Lee to handle the damage.
Lee ignored him and he finally let her be. She found me a few minutes later and we finished up the rest of our shopping there without incident. Until we were at the checkout counter and the little shit decided to pop back in and cause a scene. I mean, really! Who does that?
There was a lot of pointing and his mother started yelling at me, saying I’d hit her son. The girl at the checkout looked confused and concerned, like she should turn me in or something. I’d already paid and they were bagging things up so I said, “Lady, I tripped and accidentally stepped on his toe. It’s a madhouse in here!” Then I took off before someone decided to investigate.
Unfortunately I ran into that kid and his mom all fucking day long. I think they were following me. I bought a hat just in case, but my sister refused to wear one because it would mess up her hair. Teenagers. All they care about is themselves.
Then there was the party on Saturday night that sucked ass. And more shopping on Sunday, this time with the mom, who has to scratch and sniff EVERYTHING, turning a two hour trip into a five hour trip. Etc, so forth and so on.
See what I mean? Beautiful scenery: nakedness in shower, lovely new merchandise and a full bank account, parties....etc.
Then BLAM!
Falling rocks and deadly curves: Sliced bizness, annoying teenagers, sucky entertainment and booze, psycho moms...etc.
I’ll bet you thought from the beginning that this post was going to be all mushy and “I’m happy and then people fuck it up by dying” or “Jesus rocks”.
Ha, well jokes on you. I’m not that deep.
Some roads are smooth and black with perfectly straight yellow lines. Some roads have a pot hole or two, a few curves, and maybe the lines are a bit faded. Some are never ending dirt roads under a canopy of trees, the light never quite penetrating through. Some are four lane freeways crisscrossed with bridges, but with plenty of signs to point the way.
I’m going to hazard a guess that my metaphorical road looks a bit like this:
It’s scenic. Around every turn there’s something beautiful. The view from that road is so spectacular that I can’t imagine choosing another route.
Until, that is, those bastard ass rocks start falling from above and smashing around my car that has one too many miles on it, a bumper that doesn’t match, and a fuel tank that’s always hovering close to empty. Oh, and sometimes the gas pedal gets stuck and I go careening around those deadly curves, desperately trying to keep things in line so that I don’t go plummeting off the side of this scenic mountain.
So basically what I’m saying is my road to discovery and enlightenment is trying to kill me. Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? Just this past weekend will do.
*Note: If you don’t want to read about my vagina. Stop. Reading. Now.
Friday night I was in the shower. Naked, because that’s how I roll.
I was shaving my legs and my bizness (for you newbies, that means vagina) because Cosmo says it’s the way to a man’s
Like you don’t dance in the shower and talk to yourself in your head? Psssh, whatever.
“Design, design...what kind of design?”
Animals were out, because I’m not that talented. A circle would be weird, like a button, and that might distract from the real, more important button. Also, it made me think of that phrase “button, button, who’s got the button” and I’d likely giggle at in inopportune time and they’d think I was laughing at them and get all offended, like men do.
That left me with two options: heart or lightening bolt. Both of those are SO done, but I don’t have the dexterity to do a skull and crossbones. With the lightening bolt I could take my pants off and be all “SHAZAM!” With the heart...aw, fuck it. I did the heart because it was the simplest. Nothing says love like a heart made of hair.
I started shaving the damn heart into my bizness and I was really concentrating. I had one leg propped on the side of the tub and the shower curtain open a bit for more light. Things were trucking along smoothly for a minute. Then, with one side down and one side to go, disaster struck.
WHAM! The door flew open and smacked into the wall, followed by the unmistakable sound of my sister in a rage.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t really concentrate on her distress as I was too busy with my own. When the door flew open and she started yelling like a banshee, it scared the living daylights out of me. I jumped and my hand jerked up at the same time, causing me to slice my bizness like a Christmas ham. I SLICED my BIZNESS.
On a pain scale of 1-10, I’d give it an 11 ½. Coming in right after the discontinuation of my make up at a solid 9 ½.
Had I known there were people behind her in the hallway I never would have screamed those sailor inspired obscenities, nor would I have opened up the curtain all the way and thrown the razor at her head. Maybe.
The cut was bad, but not nearly as bad as the bloody half heart. Symbolic maybe?
It was a good thing that I didn’t hook up with that guy later on that night. How does one explain a bandaged vagina?
Then there was Saturday.
My sister and I were supposed to leave early that morning and go shopping, but I was so hungover that I couldn’t leave my bed until almost noon. Of course that meant by the time we got downtown it was a madhouse.
The first place we went to was a toy store. There was barely enough room to move. Screaming kids and angry parents crammed the aisles, shoving each other and ripping off limbs when necessary.
I’m a fast shopper. I go in with a list, I get what’s on it, and I get the fuck out. So while my disinterested sister pushed the most busted ass shopping cart known to man behind me (seriously, it sounded like someone was shooting bee bees at a tin can every time the wheels went round and it had a “limp”), I plowed through the people and grabbed.
I was looking at a display of toy guns, you know, the kind that shoots foam dart thingies? I squatted down and found the one I was looking for on the bottom shelf. I reached for it at the same time as this kid, who I thought was after something else. He couldn’t have been more than 14 or 15 with shaggy black hair and he had a spiky belt to cut himself on if his pocket knife ever got dull.
We glared at each other. I yanked, he yanked, and we glared some more. I was too hungover to hang on much longer, all that yanking was making my head hurt. So I did the only thing I could. I accidentally on purpose tripped and stomped on his toes, causing him to yell and let go of the gun.
“Go Lee”, I yelled and took off around the corner. My poor sister tried to keep up with the busted buggy, leaving a trail of noise for him to follow. “Clang, pop, clang, pop, clang, pop.” He came after us, shouting and for no apparent reason other than being on the edge of sanity’s cliff; I turned around and pointed the toy gun at him, mouthed “motha fucka” while I did a little foot to foot dance, and left Lee to handle the damage.
Lee ignored him and he finally let her be. She found me a few minutes later and we finished up the rest of our shopping there without incident. Until we were at the checkout counter and the little shit decided to pop back in and cause a scene. I mean, really! Who does that?
There was a lot of pointing and his mother started yelling at me, saying I’d hit her son. The girl at the checkout looked confused and concerned, like she should turn me in or something. I’d already paid and they were bagging things up so I said, “Lady, I tripped and accidentally stepped on his toe. It’s a madhouse in here!” Then I took off before someone decided to investigate.
Unfortunately I ran into that kid and his mom all fucking day long. I think they were following me. I bought a hat just in case, but my sister refused to wear one because it would mess up her hair. Teenagers. All they care about is themselves.
Then there was the party on Saturday night that sucked ass. And more shopping on Sunday, this time with the mom, who has to scratch and sniff EVERYTHING, turning a two hour trip into a five hour trip. Etc, so forth and so on.
See what I mean? Beautiful scenery: nakedness in shower, lovely new merchandise and a full bank account, parties....etc.
Then BLAM!
Falling rocks and deadly curves: Sliced bizness, annoying teenagers, sucky entertainment and booze, psycho moms...etc.
I’ll bet you thought from the beginning that this post was going to be all mushy and “I’m happy and then people fuck it up by dying” or “Jesus rocks”.
Ha, well jokes on you. I’m not that deep.
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