Joey Cheek, please marry me
The future Mr. Me is on C-SPAN right now being wonderful and intelligent and kind and did he just say GIRLFRIEND??? He better mean me.
Ah, future Mr. Me. You are so silly in your suit and so glum and dark and you are the first white person I've seen in the past hour who isn't congratulating himself for being so damn awesome.
Joey Cheek, I heart you.
I'd dance a thousand steps for you
Holy adorable children, Batman!
I just received an email from a coworker who is in the process of adopting a little boy. He included a picture of the kid and let me tell you, these ovaries clenched up and screeched and bounced around in babyless agony.
Oy.
YOU RUINED EVERYTHING, YOU KNOW.
Free advice: don't ever get raped
Apparently being raped in the past is a blow to your credibility if you're raped a second time. I had no idea. I'll be sure to keep my tally down to one because if I'm raped again, they'll really think I'm a whore.
Sad Bastards 'R' Us
Tonight on the way home I discovered that my writing/thinking/boo-hoo cd has lost its charm, so I'm in the process of setting up a new one. It isn't hard; most of my library consists of good sad bastard music. Well, that's not true. Most of my music library consists of crap...I just listen to the same range of 100 songs (approx.) each time I open iTunes, so it just seems like my collection is awesome. Sadly, I'm passing on Trespassers William's Just Like This, a beautiful song that holds a lot of meaning to me, because I've come to realize that TW should be reserved for candle light and red wine. Or the middle of the night, weaving through your dreams.
You know what's sad? That I only have two mini Reese's peanut butter cups left. I'm such a whore for these things. No chocolate and peanut butter combination compares.
So. I recently (as in last night) more or less made a pretty big decision that I can't let you in on. I'm mean, I know. I'm not going to tell you until I know for sure that it will work out. I have to suck it up and talk to my boss soon so he doesn't suddenly realize that...things have changed. Not to worry; it's good change.
Last peanut butter cup! Oh! Melting in my mouth! So good!
So much on my mind, so much on my mind. Have you ever felt with every fiber of your being that it's going to happen? That everything good and wonderful is going to happen and that you're just going to burst into a million little pieces of nervous energy waiting? I love that feeling and I hate that feeling because I can't trust it. I just can't.
The feeling, by the way, is closely related to that clawing, desperate feeling that overwhelms you when a situation is completely and utterly out of your hands.
I am so rambling right now.
My boss has surprisingly big feet. He's so funny when he'll allow himself to let go for a moment. He gave me something yesterday and told me that he was a good boy about writing something on the form. Or something. It was cute. And he also has the habit of saying "I" or "we" when he really means "you" (as in I'll be doing whatever it is he says "we'll" be doing) and he laughs when he does it because he feels bad for handing off menial crap to me. I don't mind. It keeps me busy. Though sometimes I think he laughs because I so readily accept the job, no matter how tedious (?). Which then makes me think he thinks I'm dumb. Which sets off a whole new set of insecurities I've developed since starting this job. I mean, seriously. I'm about as insecure as I've ever been at a job. I don't really know my coworkers very well, there are too many awkward pauses and silences, and I don't know anything (comparatively speaking).
Rambling. Must shut up.
Help?!
Feeling a little bit panicked. Feeling a little bit like I'm going to burst apart at the seams. Help? Anyone?
Just breathe
Now before you go thinking I've up and gone all Anna Nalick on you, let me assure you that I really had to remind myself to JUST BREATHE earlier today. No, Mr. T-WPSB-EGoATIMaS didn't finally call me to say that no woman compares to me and he has an ulcer from all the pining he's done since December; however, I did get an email. But, uh, not from Mr. T-WPSB-EGoATIMaS. From Clea Koff, author of The Bone Woman, which is a tremendous recount of her times in Kosovo, Croatia, and Rwanda as a forensic anthropologists. I loved the book so much I emailed her BEFORE I WAS FINISHED. She just emailed me back today and I swear y'all, I was all full of the freaking out. I mean, it wasn't a stock response. It was an actual personalized email. I'm pretty much starstruck right about now.
I'm also pretty much starving.
And speaking of Mr. T-WPSB-EGoATIMaS, I had a dream last night that he hired a private investigator to find me, he was THAT DESPERATE. Damn, it'd be nice to be wanted like that.
And the thunder rolls
What a delicious day this has been. It started with sleeping in and then a leisurely shower and then Weaver Street for that fabulous rustic bread. Home for butternut squash soup, bread, smoked gouda, and wine. Since then, there have been movies and chocolate and glorious, wonderful rain. Rain and thunder and beautiful greens and blues and browns.
Right now has me wishing I could draw or sketch because I want to sketch Lucinda and maybe Adam and Max and Noah. Maybe I should try?
Friday random, part 2
Itunes random ten. Up to y'all to find out the album. I'm too tired.
1. The Special Two - Missy Higgins
2. This Love (Kayne West remix) - Maroon 5
3. Walk Alone - Jack Johnson
4. Pale September - Fiona Apple
5. New Year's Prayer (live) - Howie Day
6. Stormy Monday - Eva Cassidy
7. The Blowers Daughter - Damien Rice
8. Erotica (sex remix) - Madonna
9. Lack of Color - Death Cab for Cutie
10. Dancing With Tears In My Eyes - Damien Rice
Friday random: part 1
If all goes as planned, there will be a part 2 that includes iTunes shuffle nonsense. If Roommate doesn't mind me swiping that idea from her.
Random #1: When the sign on the bathroom door says to knock first because the lock is broken, that does not mean knock while opening the door.
Random #2: All of the growing things outside are clogging my nasal cavity and throat with pollen and other irritants.
Random #3: As I was walking down the sidewalk on my lunchbreak, a car load of college guys drove by and one of them leaned out the window (leaned. out. the. window.) and shouted, "HEY FAT ASS!!!!!" I do understand that their behavior was uncalled for, disgusting, and completely not worth my time but I'm going to say it: my feelings are hurt and I am embarrassed and all I want to do is cry and those pricks ruined my otherwise neutral Friday.
And then sometimes
If pressed, I will say that I am generally a caring person. But then there are moments like this one I'm in right now when I really don't care and I really just want everything be how I want it and not how it will make things better for someone else. I hate these moments because they make me not want to ever hear the words 'Rwanda' and 'genocide' ever again. They make me feel like I could turn around and walk away without feeling a thing.
A continuation
I've been meaning to make this post for a few days and now I'm finally getting around to it. My previous post wherein I revealed my "secret" has left me cold. Very few people I know have the address to this blog and two of them knew my secret before I posted it. Whenever people bring up the Duke case, I feel a panicky sickness build in my stomach. For the past nine years, I have rarely had a moment not filled with shame and guilt and questions. Was it? Wasn't it? But I...I didn't...It wasn't...Over and over again. The same questions, the same disgusting replay of every single moment, the knowledge that my family doesn't know and if I have my way, will never know. Why? Because I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed to tell the internets. I'm afraid that people will call my character into question. I'm afraid of what HE will say if he ever finds out what I've said. I know what he thought of me when he finally broke up with me; I can never forget the names he called me.
Today two Duke players were charged (wrongly, according to their attorneys) and in the coming days, I expect more things to come out about the woman. I expect there to be more mention of what she has done in the past while nothing the Duke students have done in the past is called into question. Roommate made a good point: what happened that night is the only thing that matters but if they're going to bring up what this woman has done in the past, then what the Duke players did in the past is fair game, too.
All of this said, I'm terrified that I admitted on my blog that I was date raped. I've spent a lot of time lately thinking about it and how unfair it is for women whose cases become "high profile" or for women whose rape is now cause for them being punished, as they are young and unmarried and pregnant in an intolerant, male-dominated country.
I'm scared, internets. I'm scared of men. I'm scared of you. All of you.
My ass, it hurts
Yesterday I washed clothes in the bathtub. Don't ask. It involves lack of money and lack of clean clothes and tons of desperation. But in order to wash the clothes in the bathtub, I had to do a lot of leaning and scrubbing and swishing and rinsing, so at one point I was all doubled over doing these things and when I finished, I was tired. This morning I woke up to pain. Pain radiating from my ass. Pain radiating from my ass in the way that makes walking seem like a torturous chore. Those muscles rarely see much action (I remember when I worked for USDA, out in the peanut fields, and almost everyday my ass hurt!) these days and that little wind sprint I did on my lunch break in order to beat the downpour really didn't help. I mean, running and I are not friends but I ran like the wind. It was actually kind of amazing.
I just ate some peanut butter and honey toast for dinner because cooking sounded too horrific. Now I want chocolate. I mean, I could die of sugar overload before morning at this rate.
And on a positive but somewhat worrying note, the taxes AND payments are in the mail. Now let's just pray that the IRS doesn't get their shit together and deposit my checks before next Friday.
I am where I am and you're where you are
Writing is cathartic for me. I'm at my best when caught in the midst of severe melancholy. My emotions are raw, my mind tumbles thoughts around and around until those thoughts end up on my screen and from there, it's a snowball effect. When I'm good and caught in it, I can't stop thinking about the story, about the characters. I can't keep lines from running through my head. I can't keep from telling myself the details, the ones that don't matter to the actual story but matter to the character growth in my head. On and on, over and over.
Then there are the stories that I wish I could tell but can't because they aren't mine to tell. Perhaps I could tell them in some form, in a way that would mask the identity of the owner from most people. From "We Both Go Down Together" by the Decemberists to a comment like, "He sat at the dinner table and cried last night." These things created by other people...how do I respectfully make them mine? Where do I justify telling stories I can only fabricate from snippets of vague truth?
The greater the distance between myself and romance makes the gap between myself and Romance widen. I don't want that gap to widen. Leave the romance behind; I don't need him to be whole. But leave Romance in my grasp. Leave the wonder, the dewy, soft-focus sepia tone glory of possibility and sadness and loss and hope to me. Let me wrap my hands around it. Let me hold it to my chest. Please don't take that away. I need to create a forbidden love story; I need to create a loss story. Please. Don't take that away.
Of all the absurd things in the world...
I recently discovered that our fearless leader, President George W. Bush himself, is speaking at my alma mater's commencement ceremony this spring. Can I even begin to tell you how much my skin crawled? I remember when his father spoke there; my brother cut high school and went with my mom to see it. I was young and fascinated by the fact that someone like the present would visit such a dinky, not-so-important school. The university has sunken into the mire of money and money and more money. The school's president, one of the most uncharismatic people I've ever seen, is so far up the Big Donator's ass that he isn't even UP Big Donator's ass anymore. The esteemed school president is threatening the paper's editorial board with extreme censorship and some graduates are debating other whether or not to attend or if they should protest.
The glorious coming of the high speed internets to our home today was overshadowed by the loss of our cable connection* and the fact that our credit ratings aren't good enough to qualify for Dish Network. We keep up with payments, we do have credit but apparently it's not good enough for DN. Those bastards. But our high speed internets are lovely and fast and my computer and laptop are both up-to-date.
But I miss watching television, which is a sad commentary on my life. I mean, I knew before this that I watch too much TV but I am seriously addicted, people. How am I supposed to watch AC 360? How am I supposed to watch Every Woman Soledad O'Brien in the morning whilst I iron my work clothes? How am I supposed to get my news from The Daily Show if I can't see Comedy Central? Our lives are miserable. Miserable and cableless.
Oh, the things about which we complain.
*Our magical, mysterious cable access was disconnected by the technician who installed the internets
Groundhog Day
Lately, my life seems like a bad day followed by a bad day followed by a worse day followed by a bad day. If it isn't something going on with my finances (or lack thereof), it's something at work or the dismal state of the world. I am trying to find a balance, trying to see the good in everything instead of focusing on the ignorance, prejudice, and racism/sexism/ageism that is running rampant in the world.
Usually when I get to work now, there is some tiny thing that becomes an irritant, a pebble in the shoe. A pain in the ass. I prefer to call this Little Thing Syndrome. I can tell when my depression is going wonky because my LTS skyrockets. Case in point: I came to work this morning and had a bunch of email, two of which were from my boss delegating some tasks my way. Fine. Absolutely no problem. Except yet again, I am caught in the circle of waiting. I'm waiting for supplies so I can finish one project. I'm waiting for the final wording on someone's business cards. I'm waiting for someone to respond to my email so I finish another project. These things are annoying. The situation is annoying. It is in no way cause for me to become completely unhinged. But here I sit with smoke coming out my ears and a bee in my bonnet and my panties in a wad. Later I discovered that I had to reschedule the installation for our internets because a) the person whose name is on the account must be home, and b) you have to pay cash when they do it. It took me forever to actually find the phone number to call because in the confirmation email, they don't tell you who to call if you need to reschedule or cancel the installation. The call lasted all of a minute.
Last night I was somewhere between dreaming and awake -- still conscious of what was going on around me and when I'm in that place, I see things. Not in a creepy, psycho way but in a familiar-people/places/things-flash-before-my-eyes way. It can be amusing, this whirlwind of images. Except last night when the image wasn't an image but a scene and that scene was me walking out of my place of employment, heading toward the stairs, and seeing him at the bottom of the stairs, about to come up. I wanted to spork my brain right out of my head after that.
Clearly this is not something that should make my throat raw from holding back tears. Clearly none of this compares to being discriminated against because of my ethnicity because people are stupid enough to assume that because I have a "hispanic accent" that I am an illegal immigrant. Or being turned into a whorish slut because I am a dancer who should know what kind of situations I'm putting myself in when I dance at parties. Or being forced from my home by agents of my own government because of my geographic location and "differentness" from those in power.
I need to find peace. I need to find something positive to cling to. I need to rekindle hope. I need to be surrounded by the people I love. I need things to be different.
Food for thought
Our forefathers came to this country uninvited and with no respect to the land or the people who inhabited it. The difference between them and Mexicans crossing the border today? Guns, small pox, and greed.
Truths
In light of the recent Duke rape scandal, I think I should make a serious post. This is a post I've been contemplating for months and it may come out jumbled and coherent, but it's going to come out one way or the other.
Let's start at the beginning. I wasn't very popular in high school. A rumor spread around the school about my being a lesbian, for reasons of me dressing like a guy (didn't everyone wear jeans and t-shirts in the mid-'90s?) and telling a (female) friend that I loved her. She and I understood it to be, hey! you're my friend and I love you! A lot of other people took it as something else completely. In a way, it isn't at all surprising. A small town yields small minds, most of the time. (Off-topic but tonight I found out that my first "boyfriend" is now gay -- a strange feeling but not a surprise...)
Back to me. Not popular in high school. The aforementioned "boyfriend" was that 12-year-old thing we do because you're actually just friends with someone but "going out" seems so much more adult and important. My first actual real boyfriend happened when I was 19. The summer of 1997. We met in what was then an unconventional way (the internets) but we only lived a few hours apart and in the same state, so it was easier for us to have an actual relationship.
I'll admit that some bells went off when we met. He was easy to talk to and I was flattered by the attention because no one had ever paid attention to me like that before: holding my hand, hugging me, kissing me. I remember the first time he said he loved me, I balked. I remember telling myself to keep the look of partial disgust and shock off my face. I don't remember if I said it back but before long, it was reflex. Girls like me learn pretty quickly to hold onto anything they can get their hands on.
Here's where my memory is a little fuzzy. When this guy and I started dating, I was a virgin. I know I thought I'd die and go to hell if I had sex before marriage even though I didn't consider myself overly religious (you'd think I was raised Southern Baptist with all the fire-and-brimstone ideas in my head). I know I was scared, naive, and fucking tired of being neglected. I wanted to feel important, special, and like I belonged. So I let things happen. We rounded the bases in one night (I think) and it was very soon after that (like the next night) that he started pushing for things to go all the way. I knew I wasn't ready for that. I mean, sex? With this guy? Do I want to marry him? Well, I certainly don't want to be alone forever and if I break up with him or if he breaks up with me, I will never find anyone again and that will just kill me.
I resisted his advances as long as I could. And then on a Monday, late morning, we were killing time before it was time for him to go back home. I don't remember how we got to the bed. I remember being mostly clothed. I remember him being mostly clothed. I remember telling him to stop. I remember the sick feeling in my stomach. But most of all, I remember the shame.
No feelings registered in my brain. It hurt, it was messy, and I felt so incredibly sick. I cleaned myself up and chalked up my uncontrollable shaking to my sudden fears that I would get pregnant from this encounter. G-d was merciful and saved me from that particular horror.
After that, I ignored any voice that popped into my head for the next three years. I didn't like to discuss my sex life with my closest friend because it made me angry. It made me feel disgusting. It made me want to slit my wrists. The guy and I got engaged six months after we started dating. He pushed and pushed for us to move in together but I always came up for reasons against it. He pushed and pushed for us to get married. Again, there were always reasons why it wasn't a good time. I had school. We had no money. Those became our sorest spots. Money and school. He was in and out of work and all I did was go to school and work. I knew we needed some savings to move into an apartment. We had nothing. Nothing but love and while love is crucial, it doesn't pay the bills. So we fought.
Eventually sex became an empty, pleasureless experience. I stopped fighting it, stopped resisting or telling him no. One time he threw a cd player into the wall because I didn't want to have sex with him. I'm lucky it wasn't me he threw into the wall. That's one thing I have to give him credit for. He never once laid a hand on me. I don't know if it was because he's not that kind of guy or if he tooks my threats of "if you touch me, I will beat you senseless" seriously (though I hardly believe that because I let him do everything else).
The guy and I broke up in early 2000. I thought I was pregnant and assumed it would be perfect timing: a baby on the way and no fiance. Again, G-d saved my ass. I became dangerously depressed. I began hallucinating. I starved myself, deprived myself of sleep, and prayed for the strength to kill myself. Somehow I survived. I met some really amazing people who opened a huge window of opportunity for me. I moved to California and began the healing process.
It was a long, hard road and I still hit a snag here and there. I haven't been in a relationship since the guy and I broke up. Six sexless years and I am just now getting to the point where I think I could trust someone. I miss men now, the feel of them, the smell of them. I often wonder what it will be like, my first time with someone now. After Rape. I'm nearly 10 years older than I was when it happened, and I have learned a lot in that time. Despite how difficult it has been, I wouldn't change any of it. I like where I am now. I like that I have been able to feel, toward one person, the sorts of things I should've felt toward my fiance, had our relationship been strong. I said this before to my best friend, but the only regret I have about the entire situation is that I can't completely give myself to the person I want to be with. At the same time, if the guy's only purpose in my life was so that I could even be in the same room with the one I care about now, then all the pain and guilt and shame were worth it. Absolutely, one hundred percent worth it.
Reasons Wal-Mart is evil
Today, Roommate and I went to Wal-Mart because I had a gift card with some money left on it and seeing that we're pretty poor, we need all the help we can get. Even if it means getting horribly lost and following completely incorrect directions AND dealing with Wal-Mart. See, there's one reasonably close that I know how to get to but it doesn't sell groceries and we needed groceries. It took about an hour to find it and the damn store is about fifteen minutes from the house. I wish I could say I'm kidding. But I'm not kidding, so I can't say that.
That is reason #1 Wal-Mart is evil. Reason #2? They have some ridiculously low prices. Such as the strawberries we bought today. They were .97 for each little plastic container. NINETY-SEVEN CENTS. Huge, beautiful, perfect strawberries for so cheap. How could we pass that up? I felt so guilty as we picked out the two containers with the best strawberries. I actually said, "And how many Mexicans did you screw to get these strawberries, Wal-Mart?!?" Roommate replied with, "All of them." So we put our strawberries in the cart and went on to buy some canned goods, motor oil, tupperware, and bubble bath.
Which brings me to reason #3. Shopping at Wal-Mart can make even a reasonable grouping of items suddenly seem like the most Whiskey Tango grouping ever created. Canned goods, motor oil, tupperware, and bubble bath?! The only way we could've made it even more Whiskey Tango would've been to buy a rake and/or shovel, a frosted cake with little John Deere toy tractors adoring the top, and some fishing lures.
Remember how badly I wanted Taco Bell? Well, I got it today and when we ordered the food (drive-thru), I thought the person on the other end was a man. It was, in fact, a woman. A woman who sounded like she smoked ten packs a day and washed them down with a couple of bottles of Jack Daniels. I got my TB fix and a soda even though I've decided to swear off soda for good because drinking it makes me feel really gross now. This getting old business is not for me.
The face of harassment
At what point does harassment become, you know, harassment? As in I-should-call-the-cops harassment? Do repeated phone calls and voicemails containing the definition of the word "evil" qualify as harassment? Particularly when it's unprovoked? No one's life is in danger but harassment is harassment. What do you think?
It seems like the solution is simple, I know. Ignore the calls. Ignore the messages. Don't let them get under your skin. Yes, yes. All of those things have been done and yet they aren't smart enough to grasp the concept of letting shit go. They're in their early twenties, seniors at a big name college, and about to graduate. Do they really have nothing better to do with their time than leave harassing messages on the voicemail of a person who couldn't care less about them or what they have to say?
Yeah, yeah. I know I'm posting about it so obviously someone cares. It isn't the hateful, mean, and false things they say in the messages. It's the fact that they're still calling nearly two months later. I'm sad for them. Sad that they feel the need to push and shove and attempt to provoke. Sad that they feel the need to do this. Sad that they obviously feel so horrible about themselves that they have to take it out on other people. Many other people.
If you continue to surround yourself with such hostile negativity, you're going to end up hurting yourself and the people who love you, and no matter how many fingers you point and no matter how many lies you spew, eventually you'll have to face the fact that you're all the things you've said about those that left.
It's just a ride
Life is just a ride. I'm aware of this. So why does it have to be such a shitty ride? Why can't we all have normally functioning psyches that don't go all haywire when, I don't know, a second passes? Granted, I've felt a little off base all day long. I went to sleep last night with a rolling ball of ugly in me and really, I don't recommend doing that. I mean, look at how I am today. What I really want is to magically have enough money for the plane ticket back to California for the wedding and for the dress/skirt/top/whatever and shoes I'm going to need for the wedding, and Taco Bell. Of course, running for the border is easier than horking up around $500 on a whim but the nearest Taco Bell is three hundred thousand miles away and I seem to be having a little problem with my balance. As in I have none.
Of course, not running for the border and not having $500 are not the only causes of my woes. There is always that pesky matter of the male species. Male Species, why must you inflict yourself upon me like this? Why must I think you generally smell nice and look cute and oh my, what strong arms you have, Male Species! I've given a lot of thought to joining the plight of my fellow Female Species. I mean, I should just get out there, right? I should just make myself available and enjoy the ride. It's easy, right? So easy! Other Female Species do it ALL. THE. TIME.
So why can't I? Because of the stupid good-smelling, cute, broad-shouldered Male Species. Or should I say Male Specie? Yes, I'm talking to you, Mr. Tie-Wearing Professional Swaggery Blue-Eyed God of All That Is Male and Speciesish. Can I be frank (I'll let you be Shirley)? This is my blog after all. I should be able to say whatever I want.
Mr. T-WPSB-EGoATIMaS, You suck and I wish I could punch you in the stomach and then make-out with you for eleventy hours. I'm sure you're just like all the other guys whom occupy that category with you and I'm sure that if I got to know you, I'd hate your breathing guts and I'm pretty sure you need to be castrated, but goddamn it if you aren't just the invisible splinter I can't dig out of my brain. You (along with my staggering inability to MOVE ON but this is about you, not me) are hampering my chances at a normal life that involves cuddles and kisses and sexy-sexy in the queen size bed I don't yet own and babies that don't have blue eyes.
So yeah, I hate you. Please come find me? Pretty please with sugar on top and a cherry? I promise I won't be bad. Unless you want me to be.
See what I mean? Wouldn't you feel kind of concerned/irked/bitchy if you had to deal with a brain like this everyday?
Nyabasazi. That is the one word that sums up my life.
This proves to be harder than I thought. Here's all this empty space in front of me, begging to be taken up by words, and I can't think of a damn thing to say. Oh, I have a lot to talk about -- a whole myriad of issues, if you'd be so kind. I have things to prove, issues to ponder, hearts to break, and demons to slay.
I've recently become very alarmed at the amount of sweat produced by my underarms. More specifically, I'm very alarmed by my right underarm, which seems to be, most days, an ocean of...well, sweat. Is it how my shirts bunch and gather? Is it how hard I'm exerting myself? Is it the heat? Nerves? Excitement? What is causing this mass production of vile, stinky sweat? I would really like to know. Nothing, short of stuffing my pit area with towels, seems to stop the onslaught. Am I doomed to have a tropical rain forest hanging out under my right arm? (I don't want to give you the impression that I'm au natural; I do shave regularly. It is just SO DAMP sometimes.)
Another thing that alarms me? My incessant need to prove myself to people who used to think I was lame. That's not to say I'm not lame now but I'm certainly less lame than I was ten years ago when I was in high school. It would appear that my high school reunion is turning into a big party instead of a get-together for a bunch of people who graduated together. Is it really necessary to invite people who weren't in your class? It's not like anyone in my class is married to the people from the other classes. And are they going to invite everyone from the classes directly above and below us or just the people they ('they' meaning those in charge of organizing this trip down amnesia lane) like or who fit in with the It Crowd in high school? I would almost be willing to put money on the fact that none of the people I'd like to invite would actually receive an invitation. It isn't fair that I feel like I'm back there again, being harassed about my weight, my looks, my questionable sexuality (I'm straight now, just like I was in high school and it could be argued that I'm less straight now than I was then), and just me in general.
Why do I still feel the need to change everything about myself to be acceptable to them? I have nothing to be ashamed of. My life has direction and meaning and all that crap. I'm happy, I'm doing what I want, and I love my life. So why do they still make me feel like an absolute toad?
I swear, if I end up attending this little shindig, I'm going to need a bottle of vodka and a few Xanax to get through it without strangling them all.
