A woman crooned a love song on stage to an ungrateful man. People who write musicals used to make them an escape from real life. A trend that burned out as easliy as a gasoline coated stack of Pokemon cards. I got out as soon as I could, and made a sport of walking slowly in front of old ladies dabbing their eyes with white handkerchiefs. I got home and had 6 messages on my machine- all from Kyle. Not only that, but he said the same thing in every message;
"I love you, I'm a spineless bitch, please call me!"
I've wanted to take a hammer to that machine more that once. I have taken a hammer to Kyle more than once. I can't believe he still loves me. Pathetic. I sat down to eat some mixed nuts and watch TV. I went to sleep early- what else is there to do? At least I wasn't wasting my time at the theatre.
Help me, someone. Really though. My senior year is supposed to be all about me, right? I mean, not all about me, but it's supposed to be based entirely on what I want, not what sniveling sophmores want. Yeah, yeah, I know not all sophmores are sniveling. But getting taken out of Web Page Design 6 so some imbecilic ditz can get out of a class where she's being "bullied" halfway through the year is NOT what I want. I mea, it's May. And I've already taken five years of this course, starting when I was a major dip in, what, 6th grade? Apparently that counts for NOTHING. Especially if someone is being "bullied." Plus, Sharon skipped again today, so History was dull-ass. She tells me I should join her sometime, but I don't honestly think I could stand a whole day of her ranting about how perfectly enchanting Kyle is. You should hear her. "Oh Marie, I think he was SMILING at me in History! Eeek! I couldn't focus on the Hindu religion at ALL!" No dickweed, he was smiling at me, even if that scar on his forehead is from my nails when he tried to hold my hand on one of our "dates."
Kyle and I started "dating" in 6th grade. I was a dip, he's still a dip, so it all works out, right? I thought "dating" would be the spiffiest thing ever, so I of course agreed to go to Dairy Queen with him one Saturday. When we finished our slushies, we just kind of sat there, averting our eyes, and he reached over, trying to hold my hand. Using my Health vocabulary, I pulled away, and told him I wasn't ready. Wow, I was assertive. My life was such a Disney Channel sitcom. So then he asked if we could kiss, and I wasn't ready for that either, but I thought it would be SO cool to tell everyone that I had kissed a boy, so I said ok. He leaned in and smushed my nose, but we did managed to kiss, even though it tasted like warm slushie. But I was so proud of myself for kissing someone, so I didn't really care. I sat there being proud until I felt his sticky hand on mine again. In a moment of actual intelligence, amazing for the complete idiot I was, I jumped up, wrestled my hand away from him and slapped him. Yay me! I've always had sharp nails, so he ended up needing to go to the emergency room, but apparently this made him love me all the more.
Oh well. Looking back on that experience makes me realize that I shouldn't have minded, compared to what he tried to do later. Actually, just replace "my hand" with "my boob" and you've pretty much got it. Ugh. Ok, I'm sickened, can't write anymore.