Let me take you back to a time when I wore my jeans under my skirts and dyed my hair as many colors as the rainbow allowed there to be. I was sixteen years old and knew nothing about nothing but thought I knew everything about everything-and-its-sister.
I wore a ring on every single finger and neckties with my band tees. I spent most of my time in the art wing of my high school painting weird-ass murals or practicing for one of the plays. I would listen to angry, female rock in my cheap Discman and had paint all over my clothes and face. I was a mess. But at least, I didn't have braces anymore.
I had braces for six years. I was the first one to get them on in third grade. The last one to get them off in ninth. With the exception of a few other losers. And let me tell you, I was a pretty big loser. Until like junior year, when I realized everyone sucked but me. People would be nice to my face, but there is nothing in this world that stings more than a Fairfield County backstabbing. One minute you would be telling your 'friend' about your crush on so-and-so and approximately ten minutes later the entire grade would know. You would confront said 'friend' and they would say something fucking stupid like, "Well, I only told Katie/Meghan/Sarah that you liked him because I didn't know if she liked him anymore."... Like, really? What does that have to do with anything? You just wanted to blab for your own social hierarchy, therefore my teenage hormones and senseless wit will only allow me to feel the need to cunt-punt you. Straight shot to the pubic bone, bitch!
This event occurred in the early Spring of my junior year. I told these three girls that I had been uber-crushing on someone. He found out about it two periods later and pretty much laughed in my face. Essentially telling me that I never had a shot in Hell. All three of those girls were about 7 yards down the hallway, snickering and pointing at me whilst I was being shot down at my own locker.
"Sorry, 'weird' is not my type"... UglyVest said to me. Ouch, man.
"K, thanks." I said to my shoes. He stood there looking at me. He liked me. But he wasn't allowed to by social standards. Nothing new, I suppose... "You can leave now, I guess."
"You get it though, right. Like... you're a cool girl and all. But, you're just not my type. Ya know, you're like all crazy... and I'm, like... ya know... all chill. You know?" ---Eloquently said, no?
"Yeah. Great..." Closed my locker and cried in the bathroom for about twelve minutes until I heard the Katie/Meghan/Sarah bitches prance into the bathroom with one another.
I quickly folded myself into a sitting-fetal position on the toilet in the far corner stall. They would never know I was there. Not because I was quiet, but because nobody else existed but themselves. The conversation they started to have went something like this (The green is my inner monologue during the event):
Bitch A: Guys, I kind of feel bad... Like she really liked him.
Bitch B: Like he would ever date her...
Bitch A: She's pretty...like... I don't know? No?
Bitch B: She's okay...
Bitch C: No, she's pretty. She is just a fuckin' weirdo. Like, awkward isn't the word.
Bitch A: She has big boobs. She has that going for her... But if she wears the wrong thing, which she sometimes does... like her paint-covered overalls... she kind of looks... fat.
...Listen, Cunt, my paint-covered overalls may be hideous, but wearing Reefs in the winter makes you a fucking idiot. So...
And... fat?
Bitch C: Yeah, but you know it's just because of her boobs.
Bitch B: Right, I mean her big boobs make her look kinda fat.
Bitch C: Like, a little fat. Not like... a lot fat.
Bitch A: Yeah, like curvy almost.
Bitch B: Her body is not that bad. Like...
Make up your minds!
...This is when my mother's words of past wisdom infiltrated my mind. "Those girls are just jealous..."
Bitch C: I mean, she has a nice shape to her. She has nice boobs and nice legs. She just never shows them off.
...Sorry for not wearing mini-skirts in hopes of guzzling Mountain Dew bottles full of Lacrosse Team DNA. Guess I decided to pass on that adventure.
Bitch B: We're skinnier than her, right?
Bitch A+C: Oh yeah... Totally...
Bitch B: I've just been feeling fat lately. Am I fat? I have chubby cheeks.
Bitch A: Just... ya know... (there was a silent moment)
Bitch B: What?
Bitch A: When I'm feeling bloated, I just throw it up. I do it all the time. People think it's such a big deal. It's not. After a little while, you will notice you look hotter. If you have control of it, it's like... whatever...
Bitch B: Really? Should I, though?
Bitch C: We both do it. Not like all the time, but you know... like once a day.
Bitch B: Like right now?
Bitch C: Like... yeah...
Bitch B: I don't know...
Eventually, Bitch B decided to vomit in the stall right next to me. I closed my eyes and pretended I was on a magic carpet with Aladdin. But when I opened my eyes it was not a Whole New World, it was DHS at one of its finest moments with some of its finest students, throwing up their cafeteria's finest.
This is where my revenge starts.
One day, I was picking out some book on some artsy shit when I first noticed *Bobby Wheaton studying in a corner desk. Bobby was a senior. But he was not like any of the other senior boys. He was everything any hormonally-charged sixteen year-old could ever want. Not only was he on the basketball team, but he was the editor of the school newspaper and had a scholarship to Yale University. And, no, he wasn't an Asian. He was blond-haired, blue-eyed with the smile of one of Zeus's children. He was everything that I was not. I doubt he knew how to mix colors on a palette and paint something abstract and interesting. But then again, I could never do anything that involved a mathematical theorem. Like, what is a theorem even? I still don't know.
Though, I am mathematically-challenged, I had formulated a brilliant plan. A plan that needed no assistance from my friends. I just needed to make sure I carried it out without distraction. I could destroy these girls AND talk to Bobby in this plan. Was I a genius? I was getting cocky...
I was now able to kill two birds with one fucking stone. Bitchin'.
My revenge had to be sneaky. I could not get in trouble with the law or the principal, but it had to make a statement. This was the last time that I was going to let three, average-looking twats make me cry in a bathroom stall. Time to grow the fuck up. And get even.
I decided to murder two hawks with one rock in this next happenstance. I approached Bobby in the library. He accompanied himself with a pile of books the size of a third grade volcano project. Was he going to read all of these? He was a beast! A sexy beast... that I wanted in my pants.
"Hey, Bobby, right?" --- HA! Like I didn't know his FULL fucking name... "I'm Dana. I'm interested in writing a story about a problem that is going on in our school for the Neirad." I stated whilst I shook his hand. Strong grip... I like.
"Hi, Dana. Yeah, Bobby--- Nice to meet you. What are you interested in writing about?"
This is when my condescending, fake-as-fuck side came out to play like a Lucifer on a playground.
"Well..." I sat down in the chair next to him and leaned in so that he could imagine us being this close, for future reference, incase we ended up smooching in the Neirad office someday. "I think our school has a really big problem with eating disorders." I expressed a sincere and caring look upon my face to make it look like there was real concern in my soul for these bitches. "You see, Brock, is it? ...I am concerned that this school is not raising enough awareness about bulimia and anorexia. Why, just the other day I was forced to listen to some self-esteemless, young girl, barfing out her lunch in the girl's restroom. And it made me think, Brian... Maybe, these girls need to know that they were heard. Their cry for help was heard. It does not just affect them, it affects all of us. That is not something I want to hear after lunch every day."
"It's Bobby...um... are you sure she was not just sick to her stomach?" He questioned.
Ah, shit, what excuse can I pull out of my ass to prove myself? "Well, the story goes, Roger, that I happened to hear her and her
"Wow, that's really nice that you care so much." ---It is, isn't it, Bobby! Are you in love with me yet?
"I know it really is not any of my business, but I just want to write a positive message." ---A message saying, "I heard you, bitches."
Bobby thought I was The Shit for about three minutes until he realized he had more important things to do. Like continuing on with the rest of his life...
A month later, my story was printed. It went on to explain my 'horror' that day in the bathroom (Okay, so I exaggerated in the article, but I have always had a flare for the dramatic). I mentioned nothing about them making fun of me and my big ol' tittays. I just re-capped their conversation about their upchuck reflex abuse and a little shpeel about how some teenage girls have such low self-esteem that they resort to horrible actions like this. The last paragraph in the article suggested that those who partake in such activities should seek psychiatric help. I also asked to those who were involved in the bathroom incident to take a good, long, hard look in the mirror and "ask your reflection, 'Do I like myself?'" ...That's teenage self-esteem suicide. However, after this was printed, my reflection and I became best friends. That bitch is crazy!
Nothing like making an insecure bitch feel insecure about being insecure...
All three of those wenches gave me the evil eye for a month, but they were too embarrassed to do anything about it. They did not want anybody to know it was them, so they kept it on the shush. UglyVest knew I was talking about them, but he never told anybody because he had stuck his genitals into all of their rotted out mouths and did not want people to know he liked getting bulimic head. Some people are just dirty, little freaks underneath their heinous clothes.
As for Bobby and me...
Keep your panties on for the next post...
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