Look, seriously? My manager's starting to get seriously POed that you keep showing up and trying to talk to me. He's even threatening to call the cops. And no, you're right. There's no law against a guy eating at Applebee's every night, but still. You need to leave.
At first I thought it was cool that an older guy was interested in me, but now it's, like, seriously starting to creep me out, so, um, could you please just go? I'd kind of like to be a server someday, but if my boss keeps having to tell you to stop bothering me, I'm going to be busing tables forever.
And seriously. What are you talking about anyway? All this crap about people telling me you're not my kind. Well, no offense, but you're not. I don't know if I even have a kind, but if I do, "hanging around Applebee's every night and eating Sliders" isn't it. And I'm sorry if you're "misunderstood" and people say you're "no good," but you're way off when you tell me not to let them make up my mind. This GIRL's making up her own mind. And I say LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE, CREEP.
Look, dude. I'm, like, 15, OK? I will not be a woman soon. I live with my parents? And go to high school? Where I'm a sophomore? I've still got more than two years to go before I'm a woman, so, um, yeah. Just, like, go away, OK? Or I'm seriously going to call the cops.
And for the last time, no, I've never heard of Neil Diamond.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
June 3 - Bob Marley's Defense Attorney Counsels His Client Who Has Just Confessed to Having Shot the Sheriff
So. You shot the sheriff. You're not denying that. Pretty much signed a full confession and everything, huh? Well, I'm not going to sugarcoat it, Mr. Marley. It doesn't look good.
And yes, I realize you didn't shoot the deputy, which is good, but, um--how do I put this delicately?--You shot the fucking sheriff. How does any list of people you didn't shoot improve our lot in the case of the one murder you did confess to? It's like me telling my wife, Yeah, I fucked your sister, but I didn't fuck my secretary. You know? I mean, do you see how much that doesn't make a difference to the jury? Do you get that saying "I didn't do B" doesn't excuse you for doing A? I mean seriously, why the hell are you making such a point of that entirely irrelevant fact? Yeah, I shot the sheriff, but I didn't shoot the deputy! OK, great. But you did shoot the sheriff, so, um, good luck with that defense case.
Speaking of which, now that I've gotten that off my chest, let's see what we've got here.
At one point in your confession you said that you acted in self defense; however, there were no witnesses, nor is there any sort of forensic evidence that backs up your claim. You've also mentioned that you felt threatened and that every time you would plant a seed, the sheriff would say--and I'm quoting you on this--"Kill them before they grow." Which sounds ominous, I'll admit. But in and of itself, it doesn't get us much. We don't have anyone to corroborate your testimony, nor is it entirely clear, even to me, that he's issuing even a veiled threat to you. So yeah, not much we can use there.
Moving on, I've been meaning to ask you: What's all that talk about a bucket going to the well and one day the bottom dropping out and who knows what else? Where the hell are you going with that and what does it have to do with anything? Because it makes not a lick of sense to me, Bob. Not a lick. Are you trying to lay the groundwork for an insanity plea? Because--you know, seriously?--that might be your best shot. Sorry, bad choice of words, but you know what I mean. But yeah, the insanity defense might be a good option; however, as your attorney, I advise you to let me call the plays or at least sit in on the huddle, kabeesh? Don't go calling any audibles on me at this stage in the game, OK?
Anyway, sorry about all the football expressions. It's just that this case has really got me stressed out, and a lot of it has to do with this whole deputy business. Just between you and me, the more I think about your testimony, the more suspicious I become because, dude: Nobody said you shot the deputy. You just started spouting that off in the middle of your testimony unprovoked. Do you have any idea how suspicious that makes you look? It's like me coming home and my kid telling me, apropos of nothing, that he didn't break the lamp, and me being like what fucking lamp? We've got a broken lamp? I didn't realize that. Because of your little outburst, you're now the presumptive suspect in his murder case as well--and they haven't even found a body yet. Will they? Is there anybody else you "didn't shoot"?
The only way I can possibly get you off is if you're straight with me. And for God's sake, stop laughing. You know I didn't mean 'get you off' in that way.
One more thing: You need to stop telling me not to worry about a thing, OK? They've got you on murder one. There's freaking plenty of things to worry about. And no, I'm not going to give up the fight, but I want you to start mentally preparing yourself for the possibility that every little thing is not going to be all right.
And yes, I realize you didn't shoot the deputy, which is good, but, um--how do I put this delicately?--You shot the fucking sheriff. How does any list of people you didn't shoot improve our lot in the case of the one murder you did confess to? It's like me telling my wife, Yeah, I fucked your sister, but I didn't fuck my secretary. You know? I mean, do you see how much that doesn't make a difference to the jury? Do you get that saying "I didn't do B" doesn't excuse you for doing A? I mean seriously, why the hell are you making such a point of that entirely irrelevant fact? Yeah, I shot the sheriff, but I didn't shoot the deputy! OK, great. But you did shoot the sheriff, so, um, good luck with that defense case.
Speaking of which, now that I've gotten that off my chest, let's see what we've got here.
At one point in your confession you said that you acted in self defense; however, there were no witnesses, nor is there any sort of forensic evidence that backs up your claim. You've also mentioned that you felt threatened and that every time you would plant a seed, the sheriff would say--and I'm quoting you on this--"Kill them before they grow." Which sounds ominous, I'll admit. But in and of itself, it doesn't get us much. We don't have anyone to corroborate your testimony, nor is it entirely clear, even to me, that he's issuing even a veiled threat to you. So yeah, not much we can use there.
Moving on, I've been meaning to ask you: What's all that talk about a bucket going to the well and one day the bottom dropping out and who knows what else? Where the hell are you going with that and what does it have to do with anything? Because it makes not a lick of sense to me, Bob. Not a lick. Are you trying to lay the groundwork for an insanity plea? Because--you know, seriously?--that might be your best shot. Sorry, bad choice of words, but you know what I mean. But yeah, the insanity defense might be a good option; however, as your attorney, I advise you to let me call the plays or at least sit in on the huddle, kabeesh? Don't go calling any audibles on me at this stage in the game, OK?
Anyway, sorry about all the football expressions. It's just that this case has really got me stressed out, and a lot of it has to do with this whole deputy business. Just between you and me, the more I think about your testimony, the more suspicious I become because, dude: Nobody said you shot the deputy. You just started spouting that off in the middle of your testimony unprovoked. Do you have any idea how suspicious that makes you look? It's like me coming home and my kid telling me, apropos of nothing, that he didn't break the lamp, and me being like what fucking lamp? We've got a broken lamp? I didn't realize that. Because of your little outburst, you're now the presumptive suspect in his murder case as well--and they haven't even found a body yet. Will they? Is there anybody else you "didn't shoot"?
The only way I can possibly get you off is if you're straight with me. And for God's sake, stop laughing. You know I didn't mean 'get you off' in that way.
One more thing: You need to stop telling me not to worry about a thing, OK? They've got you on murder one. There's freaking plenty of things to worry about. And no, I'm not going to give up the fight, but I want you to start mentally preparing yourself for the possibility that every little thing is not going to be all right.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
June 2 - Jenny's Answering Machine Greeting
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Tuesday, June 1, 2010
June 1 - I'm So Vain
I'm just going to come out and ask you: It's about me, right? You can tell me.
Oh, what am I talking about? Of freaking course it's about me unless somehow you've been involved with somebody else who had a horse that won in Saratoga and then shortly thereafter took his Lear jet up to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the freaking sun. I mean, if there is another person who did those things, give me his email. I'm sure we would get along.
But there's not. The song's about me. By the way, here's a quick piece of advice: If you're looking for a way to get back at someone who's a self-absorbed tool, making him the subject of your biggest hit probably ain't it. It's like, yeah, you really showed me. I somehow feel less vain now. And the "I'll bet you think this song is about you" line is especially clever. It's like, if I think I'm the guy who the song is about then I automatically prove your point and you win. Or something.
Sorry. I didn't want to be an asshole this time around. I just wanted to give you my side of the story, for what it's worth. Oh, Carly. What can I tell you? It was a long time ago and we were different people then and I never meant to hurt you and all the other things you're supposed to say when you don't call somebody back. Yeah, I'll admit it. I was a dick. I should have been more mature about our little fling. All I can say in my defense is that it was the 70s. That's what we did back then. I figured you were part of that whole vibe since you partied with that crowd, but maybe (obviously?) you were looking for something more serious. I guess you were a little more emotionally attached to me than I was to you. Is that true? Or am I being so vain again?
But while I'm asking questions, here's another one: What on earth was all that crap about having dreams that were clouds in your coffee? What the fuck does that even mean? Is that supposed to make me feel bad? Because it doesn't. There was no freaking way I wanted some broad with clouds in her coffee back then. I was too busy looking for, I don't know, a chick that had coke in her bedroom (See also: It was the 70s) What, like the guy that every girl wanted as her partner (according to you) was really going to go after the chick with clouds in her coffee? God, you were naive, weren't you?
Oh, and by the way, my scarf it was salmon, not apricot.
The one thing that did kind of throw me off was when you were talking about me being with the wife of a close friend. And no, I'm not denying it (Once again, I plead the 70s). It's just that the first several times I heard it I really thought you were saying "wife of the postman" and I was like, Jesus. I didn't think anybody knew about that one.
But yeah, whatever. Message received. And knowing that the song is about me is not vain. It just means I know the song is about me. It isn't vanity if it's true.
But one final thing: I totally dug that James Bond theme you did, Nobody Does It Better. Great tune, Carly. And I'm pretty sure that song is about me too, isn't it? Or am I just putting clouds in my coffee again?
Oh, what am I talking about? Of freaking course it's about me unless somehow you've been involved with somebody else who had a horse that won in Saratoga and then shortly thereafter took his Lear jet up to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the freaking sun. I mean, if there is another person who did those things, give me his email. I'm sure we would get along.
But there's not. The song's about me. By the way, here's a quick piece of advice: If you're looking for a way to get back at someone who's a self-absorbed tool, making him the subject of your biggest hit probably ain't it. It's like, yeah, you really showed me. I somehow feel less vain now. And the "I'll bet you think this song is about you" line is especially clever. It's like, if I think I'm the guy who the song is about then I automatically prove your point and you win. Or something.
Sorry. I didn't want to be an asshole this time around. I just wanted to give you my side of the story, for what it's worth. Oh, Carly. What can I tell you? It was a long time ago and we were different people then and I never meant to hurt you and all the other things you're supposed to say when you don't call somebody back. Yeah, I'll admit it. I was a dick. I should have been more mature about our little fling. All I can say in my defense is that it was the 70s. That's what we did back then. I figured you were part of that whole vibe since you partied with that crowd, but maybe (obviously?) you were looking for something more serious. I guess you were a little more emotionally attached to me than I was to you. Is that true? Or am I being so vain again?
But while I'm asking questions, here's another one: What on earth was all that crap about having dreams that were clouds in your coffee? What the fuck does that even mean? Is that supposed to make me feel bad? Because it doesn't. There was no freaking way I wanted some broad with clouds in her coffee back then. I was too busy looking for, I don't know, a chick that had coke in her bedroom (See also: It was the 70s) What, like the guy that every girl wanted as her partner (according to you) was really going to go after the chick with clouds in her coffee? God, you were naive, weren't you?
Oh, and by the way, my scarf it was salmon, not apricot.
The one thing that did kind of throw me off was when you were talking about me being with the wife of a close friend. And no, I'm not denying it (Once again, I plead the 70s). It's just that the first several times I heard it I really thought you were saying "wife of the postman" and I was like, Jesus. I didn't think anybody knew about that one.
But yeah, whatever. Message received. And knowing that the song is about me is not vain. It just means I know the song is about me. It isn't vanity if it's true.
But one final thing: I totally dug that James Bond theme you did, Nobody Does It Better. Great tune, Carly. And I'm pretty sure that song is about me too, isn't it? Or am I just putting clouds in my coffee again?
Monday, May 31, 2010
May 31 - Maggie Responds
Well, Rod. I'm not really sure where to start.
How about with your snide little remark about how the morning sun really shows my age? Well, asshole, that's the thing about us cougars. We're older. And you want to know something? I'm fine with my age, and up until now I thought you were, too, but apparently not. Well, don't worry. You won't be seeing my wrinkled old ass anymore because I'm going to let you in on a little secret. You're a lot more replaceable than I am.
Speaking of which, what was that comment about you feeling like you're being used? Hey, jackass, let me clear up the uncertainty for you: YES, OK? Yes, you were being used. It's amazing to me how you can be so sensitive and so clueless at the same time. Yes, of freaking course you were being used. By me. Jesus, I thought that aspect of our relationship was kind of understood and we didn't need to taint it any further by talking about it explicitly, but I guess you disabused me of that idea. But one more time, just in case there's still any doubt, yes, I was using you. For sex. And (at least I thought) you were using me, too.
But maybe not. Suddenly you're talking about love, and to be honest, it's kind of scaring the bejesus out of me. Part of why I went for you in the first place was because I figured it would be purely physical--a nice fling to get us both through the summer. And I'll admit it was nice at first. But then you had to go and start throwing the L word around. "My love you didn't need to coax"? What the fuck is that anyway? Talking like Yoda when the fuck did you start?
Oh, and another thing: I lured you away from home? Hey, ass-eyes: You were home from college for the summer, and we went to my beach house a few weekends to bone. You make it sound like I took you against your will. Which, by the way, ain't exactly how you characterized it when you were talking to your friends on the phone. "Dude, she's a total milf." Yes, I heard you. I'm not that old and deaf, you know.
I'm sorry if I broke your heart, but you're young. You'll get over it. Go on now. Run along. Run on back to school. As you said, it's late September. Go back and chase all those college girls. They're more your speed anyway.
Oh, Jesus H. Christ, are you crying? Are you seriously crying? God, another one with mother issues. Is that it? I'm supposed to mother you on top of everything else? Screw that. Ain't happening. Go back to school, Rod. Go learn something, you freaking drama queen.
And tell that brother of yours to give old Maggie a call if he's going to be around this fall.
How about with your snide little remark about how the morning sun really shows my age? Well, asshole, that's the thing about us cougars. We're older. And you want to know something? I'm fine with my age, and up until now I thought you were, too, but apparently not. Well, don't worry. You won't be seeing my wrinkled old ass anymore because I'm going to let you in on a little secret. You're a lot more replaceable than I am.
Speaking of which, what was that comment about you feeling like you're being used? Hey, jackass, let me clear up the uncertainty for you: YES, OK? Yes, you were being used. It's amazing to me how you can be so sensitive and so clueless at the same time. Yes, of freaking course you were being used. By me. Jesus, I thought that aspect of our relationship was kind of understood and we didn't need to taint it any further by talking about it explicitly, but I guess you disabused me of that idea. But one more time, just in case there's still any doubt, yes, I was using you. For sex. And (at least I thought) you were using me, too.
But maybe not. Suddenly you're talking about love, and to be honest, it's kind of scaring the bejesus out of me. Part of why I went for you in the first place was because I figured it would be purely physical--a nice fling to get us both through the summer. And I'll admit it was nice at first. But then you had to go and start throwing the L word around. "My love you didn't need to coax"? What the fuck is that anyway? Talking like Yoda when the fuck did you start?
Oh, and another thing: I lured you away from home? Hey, ass-eyes: You were home from college for the summer, and we went to my beach house a few weekends to bone. You make it sound like I took you against your will. Which, by the way, ain't exactly how you characterized it when you were talking to your friends on the phone. "Dude, she's a total milf." Yes, I heard you. I'm not that old and deaf, you know.
I'm sorry if I broke your heart, but you're young. You'll get over it. Go on now. Run along. Run on back to school. As you said, it's late September. Go back and chase all those college girls. They're more your speed anyway.
Oh, Jesus H. Christ, are you crying? Are you seriously crying? God, another one with mother issues. Is that it? I'm supposed to mother you on top of everything else? Screw that. Ain't happening. Go back to school, Rod. Go learn something, you freaking drama queen.
And tell that brother of yours to give old Maggie a call if he's going to be around this fall.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
May 30 - Tonight
Woman, I hope you brought your toilet paper, because I intend to fuck the shit out of you tonight. I'm not even kidding either.
Did that come out nasty? If so, I apologize but I can't help it because I mean, damn, woman. You look good. You look so good I truly don't know whether to lay you down right here and now and make loud, nasty love to you, or just look at you and fill all my weren't-doing-nothing-important-anyhow brain cells with every element of you standing here before me so I will have a lifetime's worth of masturbatory fodder.
Seriously, girl.
Waiting time is over. It is time for us to do it. Girl, the dirtiest minds in the porn industry couldn't begin to imagine all the lurid things we're going to do tonight. In fact, if said minds were to see a video recording of the sexual acrobatics we are mere moments away from commencing, they would surely say to themselves, "Damn! And I thought we were the sexperts, but we're not. They are. My God, look at them go." By which they would be referring to us.
Yes, woman. We will be inventive tonight. Know that. We will use ladders, a swing set, roofing shingles, and a compost heap in the course of our lovemaking. A compost heap? Yes. God, yes.
The aforementioned props probably have you thinking that we will be doing it in the backyard, perhaps in or near the tool shed. How right you are, my intuitive little fuck bunny. But our sessions will not be limited to that part of our property. Oh, no. We will also do it indoors. In fact, we will do it in every room of my parents' house: All three bedrooms, all two and a half baths, and every other room in between, including the laundry room. It is here that I will wrap you up in Bounce dryer sheets and treat you like my own private sex mummy. And during this role play, I will ask you, "Who's your daddy?" And this will be especially clever because of the whole mummy/daddy thing.
But of course, there also exists the possibility that such a question will cross a line and ruin the moment, so we will have to play that one by ear.
Moving on, another place we will do it is in the basement, my lurid, steamy love dungeon. Girl, when we get there, I hope you still have some toilet paper left over because that place is going to make you shit yourself. Although it is not finished being remodeled yet, it definitely looks better than it did the last time you were there. For example, I vacuumed. However, don't think for a moment that that will stop us from getting it all dirty again (from us doing it), because we will totally do it all over the sectional sofa.
Maybe I should call it the sexional sofa! Yeah, dog!
We are also going to do it on my weight bench, as well as my abdominizer, assuming we can figure out a safe way to do so. If you are not too freaked out by it, I would also like to do it in front of an audience of my old Star Wars figures that I have stored in the basement.
Actually, now that I say that one out loud, I have to admit that it sounded better in my head. We will also play that one by ear.
But whether or not we end up doing that, tonight we are going to have the kind of sex that porn stars aspire to. We are going to do it until the breaka breaka dawn. Then, as the sun is dawning on a new day, we will do it again, assuming we are not too tired.
In summary: Sex. Tonight. You and me. And I promise I'll be better than last time.
Did that come out nasty? If so, I apologize but I can't help it because I mean, damn, woman. You look good. You look so good I truly don't know whether to lay you down right here and now and make loud, nasty love to you, or just look at you and fill all my weren't-doing-nothing-important-anyhow brain cells with every element of you standing here before me so I will have a lifetime's worth of masturbatory fodder.
Seriously, girl.
Waiting time is over. It is time for us to do it. Girl, the dirtiest minds in the porn industry couldn't begin to imagine all the lurid things we're going to do tonight. In fact, if said minds were to see a video recording of the sexual acrobatics we are mere moments away from commencing, they would surely say to themselves, "Damn! And I thought we were the sexperts, but we're not. They are. My God, look at them go." By which they would be referring to us.
Yes, woman. We will be inventive tonight. Know that. We will use ladders, a swing set, roofing shingles, and a compost heap in the course of our lovemaking. A compost heap? Yes. God, yes.
The aforementioned props probably have you thinking that we will be doing it in the backyard, perhaps in or near the tool shed. How right you are, my intuitive little fuck bunny. But our sessions will not be limited to that part of our property. Oh, no. We will also do it indoors. In fact, we will do it in every room of my parents' house: All three bedrooms, all two and a half baths, and every other room in between, including the laundry room. It is here that I will wrap you up in Bounce dryer sheets and treat you like my own private sex mummy. And during this role play, I will ask you, "Who's your daddy?" And this will be especially clever because of the whole mummy/daddy thing.
But of course, there also exists the possibility that such a question will cross a line and ruin the moment, so we will have to play that one by ear.
Moving on, another place we will do it is in the basement, my lurid, steamy love dungeon. Girl, when we get there, I hope you still have some toilet paper left over because that place is going to make you shit yourself. Although it is not finished being remodeled yet, it definitely looks better than it did the last time you were there. For example, I vacuumed. However, don't think for a moment that that will stop us from getting it all dirty again (from us doing it), because we will totally do it all over the sectional sofa.
Maybe I should call it the sexional sofa! Yeah, dog!
We are also going to do it on my weight bench, as well as my abdominizer, assuming we can figure out a safe way to do so. If you are not too freaked out by it, I would also like to do it in front of an audience of my old Star Wars figures that I have stored in the basement.
Actually, now that I say that one out loud, I have to admit that it sounded better in my head. We will also play that one by ear.
But whether or not we end up doing that, tonight we are going to have the kind of sex that porn stars aspire to. We are going to do it until the breaka breaka dawn. Then, as the sun is dawning on a new day, we will do it again, assuming we are not too tired.
In summary: Sex. Tonight. You and me. And I promise I'll be better than last time.
Friday, May 28, 2010
May 29 - The Running of the Bachelorettes
For as long as I could remember, every summer my mom would always take me downtown to see the Running of the Bachelorettes, where all the unmarried women who had turned 18 in the previous year would put on a wedding dress and heels and run through the streets of our town in the hopes of landing themselves a groom.
What a sight they were! As beautiful and fit as you could hope for, running, giggling, blushing, and sweating.
Every year my mom would tell me that one day I would be there, too, running through the streets in the wedding dress she had chosen for me, racing to find a husband.
"But mom," I would always tell her. "I'm a boy."
"Don't' be silly," she would reply. "You're a girl. Someday you'll see."
And again and again, she would try to make me what she wanted me to be. Dolls, play kitchens, and princess tiaras when I was in kindergarten. Pony camp, flute lessons, and Barbies when I was in elementary school. Makeup, bras, and feminine hygiene products when I was in high school. All designed to mold me into her little princess. All designed to groom me for the Running of the Bachelorettes when I too turned 18.
Ever since my dad died, I was all she had. And just as she had won him during her year's Running, so too she had dreamt of me claiming a husband in my 18th year. My entire upbringing has been in preparation of the event.
High school wasn't easy. Nor were middle school or elementary school. You know how cruel kids can be to anyone different. There I'd be walking the halls in a mini skirt and makeup. I guess my mom thought looking like a hussy was the way to go. And it did get me a lot of attention, but I could never figure out how I felt about it. It was all so confusing. The only times when anything made any sense was during each year's Running of the Bachelorettes. Seeing those hundreds of exuberant young women racing through town in their gorgeous dresses as the whole town cheered them on, I could understand why my mom wanted that for me.
But then after a few weeks, the memory would fade and there I'd be, just another freak trying to survive high school.
Well, I turned 18 three months ago, which means I'm eligible for this year's Running. It starts tomorrow at noon.
I've long since decided I'm going to run. How could I not? And of course I've already tried on the dress for my mom. She wants to make sure it is as form fitting as it is flexible. Her friends all agree I look beautiful in it, but I don't know. I think it makes me look fat.
When I'm out there tomorrow, I'm sure some people will laugh at me, and some people will be supportive of me, but most people probably won't care one way or the other. As far as the outcome goes, I think it's safe to say I'm not going to be walking away with any husband offers. Either way, by this time tomorrow it will all finally be over, and my mom will get off my back. At least until I go away to college and she tries to get me to rush her old sorority.
What a sight they were! As beautiful and fit as you could hope for, running, giggling, blushing, and sweating.
Every year my mom would tell me that one day I would be there, too, running through the streets in the wedding dress she had chosen for me, racing to find a husband.
"But mom," I would always tell her. "I'm a boy."
"Don't' be silly," she would reply. "You're a girl. Someday you'll see."
And again and again, she would try to make me what she wanted me to be. Dolls, play kitchens, and princess tiaras when I was in kindergarten. Pony camp, flute lessons, and Barbies when I was in elementary school. Makeup, bras, and feminine hygiene products when I was in high school. All designed to mold me into her little princess. All designed to groom me for the Running of the Bachelorettes when I too turned 18.
Ever since my dad died, I was all she had. And just as she had won him during her year's Running, so too she had dreamt of me claiming a husband in my 18th year. My entire upbringing has been in preparation of the event.
High school wasn't easy. Nor were middle school or elementary school. You know how cruel kids can be to anyone different. There I'd be walking the halls in a mini skirt and makeup. I guess my mom thought looking like a hussy was the way to go. And it did get me a lot of attention, but I could never figure out how I felt about it. It was all so confusing. The only times when anything made any sense was during each year's Running of the Bachelorettes. Seeing those hundreds of exuberant young women racing through town in their gorgeous dresses as the whole town cheered them on, I could understand why my mom wanted that for me.
But then after a few weeks, the memory would fade and there I'd be, just another freak trying to survive high school.
Well, I turned 18 three months ago, which means I'm eligible for this year's Running. It starts tomorrow at noon.
I've long since decided I'm going to run. How could I not? And of course I've already tried on the dress for my mom. She wants to make sure it is as form fitting as it is flexible. Her friends all agree I look beautiful in it, but I don't know. I think it makes me look fat.
When I'm out there tomorrow, I'm sure some people will laugh at me, and some people will be supportive of me, but most people probably won't care one way or the other. As far as the outcome goes, I think it's safe to say I'm not going to be walking away with any husband offers. Either way, by this time tomorrow it will all finally be over, and my mom will get off my back. At least until I go away to college and she tries to get me to rush her old sorority.
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