Flashback Friday: The Sweater

I originally published this story back when I first begun blogging in 2010, but after everything that's been happening recently with bullying, and social media being such a strong contributing factor in teen suicides, I thought I should re-visit this memory.

Even now, as I re-read and tweak the sentence structures (oh-my-god-what-was-I-thinking-putting-that-comma-there-3-years-ago), I can't help but think I dodged a HUGE bullet having this happen to me before the age of cyber-bullying and social media. Something as silly as this could have easily spiraled out of control (even more than it already did) and caused some serious damage. 

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It took me until this incident to realize that although girls are always pegged to have serious peer-pressure issues; guys aren't that different after all.

In grade 11, I had a briefly lived friendship with Scott, a guy in my graphics class. Of course, I would have wanted more, but even being his friend was good enough for me. He was very cute, but also a little odd, which is why I guess I was drawn to him.

Scott and I really got along well; we had a lot of similar interests and I just found that I was comfortable talking to him. Shortly after we first started talking, he started to wait for me every morning at the top of the hill from our school and we would continue together from there. He usually skateboarded to school, so he would either weave around me and talk or just get off and carry it when we walked together. Either way, I really enjoyed our morning chats and looked forward to them.

During school, he didn't really acknowledge our blossoming friendship, especially when his mates were around. That part I understood and it didn't bother me too much – I was well aware that most of them were complete douchebags. He was a ‘member’ of the cool guy skater boy squad at our school, although only about middle-management, meaning basically that he was a puppet to the ‘higher-ups’. In order to have any kind of relationship with one of these guys, whether platonic or otherwise, the ‘higher-ups’ would have to approve, or some stupid shit like that. 

I assume the verdict came in that I was not good enough.

Our friendship had gone one step further and he invited me to his house after school a couple of times. I had met his mum and even had dinner with them. Of course, being the curious person that I was, while we were hanging out in his room, I had gone through some of his wardrobe drawers. We had a good laugh when I found a few old "nerdy" items and I also found a really nice black sweater. He said he hated it and that it was a bit "faggotty" for him, but I really liked it. He said I could take it, if I wanted to – so I did, and I wore it to school the next day.

He met me that morning as usual, and everything was cool between us... until lunchtime. I still have no idea how the ‘guy squad’ pieced together that I was wearing Scott’s sweater – it was a pretty generic all-black sweater – but they found out somehow. I guess that let the cat out of the bag, and from there on in, I could only speculate how things went down. I am guessing that they confronted Scott about me and they must have been extremely disapproving or made fun of him, because the next thing I knew, they were all approaching me – like a swarm of hyenas surrounding an injured gazelle. 

Then Scott yelled at me, “Hey, you stupid bitch! Are you a klepto or something? What they fuck are you doing with my top?” 

I really wasn't sure what was going on, and I didn't answer for a couple seconds; I was completely stunned, confused and terrified. This guy was supposed to be my friend. I just had dinner with him and his mother the night before, for fuck's sake! 

Then, one of the upper-management assholes took over, “Answer him, Klepto Bitch! What the fuck are you doing with his shit?” 

I didn't even think that trying to defend my honor would have served a purpose. I just kept leering at Scott, like I was telepathically begging for his help or something, and he didn't even flinch from his stare of hatred that he reciprocated back in my general direction. 

Luckily, I was wearing a T-shirt underneath that damn sweater, and I quickly pulled it off over my head and threw it back at him. The only thing I drummed up the courage to say was, “You can take your stupid fucking sweater, assholes!” And then I ran away, so as to save myself from getting my ass kicked by a bunch of guys (which I wouldn't have put past them) and also so that Scott or the others couldn't take any satisfaction in seeing my tears of pure rage that began to burn down my face. 

I could hear them yelling and taunting me as I ran away, as well as them victoriously high-fiving each other.

The next couple months felt like an excruciating eternity. 

They called me ‘Klepto Bitch’ for the longest time. I tried to ignore it, but it really drove me a little insane. I couldn't sleep and was having serious stomach and digestive issues. I tried to avoid them whenever possible, and if I did see them travelling in a pack, I just cringed and got ready for the insults to be viciously hurled at me. Of course, they were fine when it was just one of them; it was "the herd" that I had to fear. As for Scott, I didn't even try to approach him about the situation. It was clear that his role as a ‘puppet’ was far more important than any scrap of friendship that we had developed. If I was forced to come within close range of him in class, he pretty much ignored my existence. It was so utterly disappointing. 

I hated him. 
I missed him.
And I felt sorry for him, all at the same time.

Eventually, their herd started to ignore me in the halls — I guess the joke got old, even for them. It took about 3 months, but it did come to an end, and it was so gradual that I barely noticed when it had been weeks since any of them taunted me. Those locusts likely had moved on to someone fresh and new to devour. 

I was usually out-going, the life of the party — but they paralyzed me and for once in my life, I welcomed obscurity.

The ones left behind

I've had the words spinning around my mind since it happened, making me nauseous. I cannot get them to stop. I have been trying to put them down in some form of organized structure, wanting to get it right. Needing to get it right . . .

Those children. Their parents. The survivors. That town.

I have lived in "that" town.

My neighbors were those parents.

My students were those survivors.

In 1996, I was an obnoxious 18 year old living in a different country and I can honestly say that I don't remember "that day", but 8 years later I moved to that tiny little town which is cozily nestled around the river Allan in beautiful Perthshire, Scotland.

Almost every person I have met (and even to this day, if someone asks), when I told them which town I lived in Scotland, they have reacted with raised eyebrows and have forced out a somber and deflated, "Oh."

And it has been sixteen years now.

It stains a small town forever; the name becomes synonymous with tragedy. All other beauties and triumphs are stolen and that is all that remains — to the outside world looking in, anyway.

I remember being taken aside on my first days of teaching. I was told names of students that had physical (and emotional) scars of which I was to "avoid" mentioning at all costs, and yet it still didn't really sink in. It wasn't until the moment that I actually saw those visible 9 year old scars on my then 17 year old students — that was one of the most difficult moments of my life. Fucking gun shot wounds on these children. I just wanted to pull them close and hug them, but of course, I couldn't do that. And I couldn't cry.

Teacher's college doesn't exactly prepare you for that — but really, is there anything that possibly could?

On the 10 year anniversary of that horrific day there was not an official memorial or gathering, but every resident quietly lit a candle in their windows as a tribute to those 16 children and 1 teacher that have not been forgotten.

And that night, as I walked my dogs around my dark and silent neighborhood, it glowed.

It glowed with sadness.
And love.
And loss.
And hope.

So after the events of Friday, I wept for the people of that town. I wept for a loss that I cannot possibly comprehend. And today, as I write these words, I weep for their future because that, I have lived in.

1984, bitches!

My mother has finally decided it's time I get the rest of my crap from her basement, much to my husband's horror. On the plus side, I discovered my school treasures dating all the way back to kindergarten. My mom likes to blame all the hoarding on me, but there's no way I started keeping those things from way back then on my own - all neatly categorized in order by year. Ahem!

Anyway, I have been laughing my arse off at my seven year old self for the past two days, so I thought you might as well join in on the ridiculousness that is mini me.

Loving the fake tan and leg warmers, Cyndi!

I don't know about this one, but the accuracy is amazing.

This actually explains a lot . . .

I was scrap booking before scrap booking was cool!

Holy fuck, I really do love winning!

And it appears my artistic abilities peaked in 1984

because I'm pretty sure I still draw sunsets like this:

Magritte can stick this in his pipe and smoke it.

Hard Lessons & Broken Records

I began writing this with a heavy heart since recent events have left me quite speechless — which I will be the first to admit that it doesn't happen often. It is one thing to bully someone to the point where they take their own life; it is an entirely new level of hell that one is striving towards when you continue to mock and disparage that person after they have died. What is the motherfucking point of spitting gas on a fire that has been extinguished? It's disgusting and sociopathic, if you ask me.

You want to know the one time I would slap my own teen? If I found out that he was contributing to that fucking mess, that's when. Just in knowing that we, as a generation, have raised these kids to hold such little value and honor in other people's lives makes me physically nauseous. And what does that mean for our future as a society . . .

I clearly remember incidents when I was in middle school where the "mob mentality" would take over and 4, 5, 6 people would bully and laugh at a single person until they cried or ran away. Can is still be called a "mob" when everyone is isolated in the comfort of their own middle class rooms, sitting nicely behind a computer? Fucking cowards.

I know there has been a plea for all these mindless douchebags to stop posting negative comments about the deceased girl and to "think what they are doing." But that's just it — they do not think. They believe it's all fucking hilarious and they won't see the err of their ways for likely another 5 years to even a decade. And for the REALLY thick ones, it won't sink in until they, themselves, become parents (which is ironic considering those are the people that give me a strong "pro" argument for involuntary sterilization).

And like a broken record, I am once again expressing that this is one of the key reasons I had to resign from teaching high school. SO MANY TIMES I just wanted to kick them hard in their asses and say, "You're a fucking asshole. Don't be an asshole!" These thoughts mostly came about while I was sweeping ripped out hair that covered the floor outside my classroom from the latest fight which usually involved two (or more) 12 year old girls trying to kill each other over the affections of a 12 year old boy who's balls hadn't even dropped yet.

I realize that it's a different social climate than 20 years ago (when I was 14), but mean bullies have been around for thousands of years – it's in our human nature – not one of our more admirable traits, but there it is. Call it insecurity; call it ignorance; call it over-inflated entitlement; hell, you can even call it Darwinian, but it's always been there - it's just the medium that keeps changing and evolving, each ugly head being more hideous and cruel than the last.

These are 5 ways to defeat a bully, and all five (in one way or another) are ways I have personally done to overcome the suck ass years that we have all had to battle though:

1. Ignore them. Getting upset is what gives them a hard on. Don't give them that pleasure! They'll likely be pumping your gas in 10 years (or doing nothing but playing video games and reminiscing about how  cool they were in high school and living in the basement apartment of their parents' mansion well into their thirties), so who the fuck cares if they call you a nasty name? Let them have their moment - it might be one of the few they get in their sad, little lives.

2. Beat them at their own game. They post something about you? Post something about yourself that's even funnier. This also goes back to #1. If you cause a stink about it, it will snowball into something that will get out of control until you feel you can't breathe. They will feed on that like starving vultures.

3. Punch them in their fucking face. OK, so this is probably frowned upon the most, but I gotta say, it worked for me . . . twice. Same dude; he wasn't so bright. And he grew up to be a Minor League hockey drop out and date rapist, so really, I don't regret assaulting him for a single moment.

4. Leave. Strategically, it's not the easiest solution, but if you're simply just fed up with their douchebaggery, change schools. It's best to not make a public event about it or else it will just follow you to your next school. And obviously, having a car helps. The further you can go, the better, because assholes have spies. I moved schools twice, although it wasn't from a specific bully per se, but there were a lot of asshats that just really annoyed me.

5. Become a fabulous success. I'm still working on this one, ahem, but success as revenge is (I think) just about the best incentive/motivation to do good things in your life. Take something negative and let it be the driving force to do something positive! Rise above their stupid, juvenile bullshit and take solace in knowing that after you graduate, you will be stronger because of it. You have the choice to close that door behind you and never look back. Killing yourself accomplishes nothing. Start over with a new phase of your life and have some goddamn fun. Blog about it, for fuck's sake!

Whatever we need to do to help process the fact that we lived through the bullshit and came out the other end . . . a little dirty but still alive - kind of like when Andy escaped through the raw sewage and into the fresh water in Shawshank Redemption.

Yup, that's high school.

The Whitney Season 1 DVD is available now folks and people who were mean to me in high school.
— Whitney Cummings (@WhitneyCummings) October 9, 2012

Yes, Whitney, exactly this.

I think a show on NBC prime time is just about thee very best way to tell your bullies that you are absolutely awesome. Everyone else can suck it!

And to all the victims and their families that have had to experience a tragic ending, my heart truly aches for you because it should never have to end like that.

Colour Me Kilted

This past weekend was the Highland Games in my wee little town, and do you know what that means? Lots and lots of men wearing kilts. More kilts than I'd ever seen at one time, and that's speaking from someone who's lived in Scotland! (Many Scotsmen that I know actually find kilts vulgar and cliché, including my grandfather and father-in-law.) But since I'm not a Scot or a man, I say bring it on!

It reminds me of this time in high school: We had one particular friend in our group that was good looking. Well, that's putting it lightly - he was fucking stunning. He looked a lot like Brad Pitt, but without the "I've been beaten to a pulp numerous times" look. I cannot deny that being arm-in-arm with him at a bar made me feel like hot shit as women would approach him to ask for his autograph, thinking that he actually was Brad (yes, that happened.. twice).

He was a genuinely nice guy too, which just made him more desirable. Friendly, artistic, smart, funny and musical. What can I say, he made my brain soft. It was around the same time in my life when I had to start wearing pantiliners that I also sat next to him everyday in Art class. Coincidence? Doubtful. Ahem.  He didn't seem to affect my other friends as deeply as he did me, (perhaps because they had been going to school with him for a lot longer than myself) but for whatever the reason, I learned to keep my cool around him for the most part...

Until the day he wore a kilt.

He showed up to school in a plain white t-shirt, black Doc Martens and a Macgregor kilt. It was definitely not a fashion statement that was seen every day in 1996 and I doubt anyone but him could have pulled it off without being made a laughing stock. He was already known for his eccentricities, in addition to his alarmingly good looks, so this hardly got more than a few double takes.

In the middle of the main foyer, crammed with approximately 100 other students all rushing to their respective classes, I snuck up behind him and lifted up the back of his kilt.

Beautiful. Bare. Ass.

He wasn't even startled. He slowly turned around, smiled at my flaming beet-red face and laughed, "You look surprised. Commando's the only way to wear a kilt, darling."

In-fucking-deed.

Sadly, that glorious two seconds would be the one and only time I would get a glance at that man's under carriage, so to speak. Hindsight is painfully 20/20 because if I had known that, and however much I really do appreciate a nice ass, I wish I had lifted up the front.

Instead, I'll just hold on to that regret thought and masturbate to this photo...

Get Better

I don't think I've done a Music Monday for about 6 months, gah! Since I've been busy stuffing pocket rocket boxes with my business cards for BlogHer '12, I thought now is a good a time as any. Also? This may not be a new song, but it's new to me and it blew my gawd damn mind...

When music is used as a tool 

to share a vital message about the state of our society, 

(and not just about screwing hos or how much money you have), 

my heart swells with pride. 

And after hearing this, I'm bursting. 

Please watch if you haven't already - 

and if you have children in high school, 

watch it with them!

"..there are other choices --- if you want them, 
You don't have to tow the line and just float with the flotsam, 
You can build your time better when you find a passion, 
The Internet and public services give free education, 
So it really ain't a case of rich or poor, 
It's a case of self-motivation and nothing more, 
Like Billy says, whether you have or you have not wealth, 
The system might fail you, but don't fail yourself, 
Just get better."

When is young too young?

"I want us to have sex."

"Nope, sorry. I don't want to have sex until I'm older, and when I'm in love."

"That's lame. Sex is fun."

"That's nice. I'll find out when I'm older. You aren't going to change my mind."

"Fine. How about in your ass?"

I laid there naked, and as he groped my right breast I paused to think about it.
"Mmmmm. OK, I guess we could give that a try."

The look on his face was nothing short of pure excitement. His beautiful crystal blue eyes that initially attracted me to him were widened with anticipation. He grabbed my ass and hoisted me up onto all fours to assume "the position". I didn't really do much to help him out - not that I knew what the fuck to do anyway; I just thought he would know.

He pretended to be so experienced, even though I was fairly intuitive and saw right through his bullshit. For some reason or another, I found his phony act of "studliness" oddly endearing... however briefly.

He pushed his dick between my butt cheeks and just started pounding away - like a drunken fool trying to get their key into the hole by ramming it in the general area of the key hole.

Yes, that.

And let me just say that he never got in the door.

I just stayed there on all fours getting pounded from behind, but aside from the force of his body hitting mine, there was nothing. And I knew it. It was quite obvious to me, but apparently not to him.

After he had, umm, finished? He collapsed on to his bed beside me and with an exhausted smile, he rubbed his hand on my stomach and said, "You're officially my twentieth lay. Congratulations, sexy!"

Charming.

And so not true. It took everything in me not to call him on that clusterfuck, but by that time, I had ZERO interest in having him trying again. I just let him have his moment.

I was twelve.

And he was thirteen.

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And this happens more than parents want to know or are willing to admit, but it's out there. It's going on right now, and even though parents find it uncomfortable taking about sex with their adolescents, they need to. It's a part of life and growing up and learning and exploring.

I thought it was time I wrote this post as a response to the latest controversies of what constitutes going "too far" with sexual education for children at the grade 7-8 level (12-13 years old). I cannot believe this is STILL going on. The legislation has been in place since 1988, people! Get the fuck over it and talk to your children about sex.

This is my story, and this event took place 22 years ago.

A lot has changed in 22 years but two things will always remain the same: Kids are curious and dumb - and it's a terrible combination.

Please educate them.

The PYT that would never be

During my fourth year of University, I had to do the unthinkable -- I had to go backtrack and do a first year course. And not just any first year course, it was Introduction to Art. Fuck me. I didn't take it even in my first year because I was too much of a cocky bitch to take it, and since it wasn't a prerequisite for anything, I skipped it. Then, the graduation forms come 'round and SURPRISE, as it turns out, I did need it.

(To my guidance counselor, I give a huge retrospective middle finger! )

Anyway, I had to go to this soul sucking class for an entire year (at the same time as completing my honors for fine art, so... yeah). On the first day, I walked in to the massive lecture hall and I quickly noticed a Pretty Young Thing that was sitting with some friends, but the seat to his left was vacant.

Jackpot!

My initial intuition was fairly good. He was charming, friendly, a natural smart ass, and had a wholesome, Victorian country town accent that worked like panty remover to me.

The only problem was that he was a little on the young side. OK, when I was 23 and he was 17 -- that is A LOT on the young side. I was just wrapping up my “crazy University years” while he was barely 48 hours into the beginning of his. Ugh. But once I decided I wanted that ass, I powered though it. I dedicated much time and effort pretending to be interested in his first year issues and how “fucking cool” it was being away from his parents for the first time. 

(Yeah, OK kiddo… just shut up and take off those pants.)

The worst was going out to celebrate his 18th birthday (the legal drinking age and a huge deal in Australia). Aside from him and myself, there was his twin brother (to whom he also shared a dorm room with) and a bunch of girls from his boarding house – most of which were under age. There were some girls that had JUST turned 17 and were giddy just by being at the bar and claiming to be tipsy from a pot of beer (1/2 pint), like I was living through the made-for-TV-movie nightmare of Hannah Montana coming of age -- without the cock cake.

All the while, I was imagining how much it would hurt if I stabbed my thigh with a fork… because it was THAT much fun listening to their conversations. Christ, I felt really fucking old, but apart from a couple brief lip-on-lip pecks, I hadn’t sealed the deal… so I endured. 

The next weekend was so fucking on – enough of this bullshit, it was time to bring in the closer. Just the two of us went out for some drinks, which was MUCH better. I didn’t notice quite an age/maturity difference when we were alone, since we did have a very similar sense of humor. The drunken kisses began late into the night and I thought, “Sweet fuck, here’s my chance!”, so I took charge and suggested we go to his dorm (my flat was a lot further away, but in hindsight probably would have been the smarter option). He agreed and off we went. Clothes were quickly removed and foreplay was underway when his brother walked in on us! 

I popped my head up from under the sheets, pleasantly sarcastic: “Hi Mark, bye Mark!” He did a bit of a flustered ‘oops shrug’ and off he went. As I turned back to Dave under the covers, one thing was painfully obvious… he was soft and had retreated so high up into his cave that only one of the fucking Seven Dwarfs could locate his cock at that point. 

Hi ho.

Hi ho. 

It’s off to work I go… 

And work I did for a short and awkward while, but he was done for the night. 

And so was I – for good. 

Fun sex shouldn’t have had to be THAT much effort… so we still sat together during that God forsaken class, but that was it. We never spoke about it again. I decided it would be much better if I pursued an older guy that wouldn’t take four months to decide whether or not he wanted to fuck me until I walked wrong.

And so I did.

To Bully or Not to Bully

9 times out of 10, the concept of bullying is fairly straight forward… except in my case, of course. I would like to think, or rather, I would hope that in today’s more holistic understanding of a child's psyche that the situation I found myself in would have been handled differently than it was in the early 90s. (Although I believe even back then it was poorly dealt with.)

It began in grade 5 with a girl named Lynda; Lynda was not even in my class. People, whether it be peers or adults, always perceived me as the leader, and though I may have leadership qualities, I wasn’t really ever at the driver’s seat of the girly mob… I was just the loudest, that’s all. Some of my friends in Lynda’s class decided to pick on her. She was shy, homely and had less-than-cool clothes – the typical prey for a pack of vicious 11 year old girls. My friends wanted to make a song about her – to make fun of her. Now, I’m not proud of this, but obviously I was the prodigious song writer behind this project. It was to the tune of “Bad to the Bone” and went like this:

One day I came to school, Du-na-nu-na-na
Lynda was dead, Du-na-nu-na-na;
A bus came down the street, Du-na-nu-na-na
And ran over her head, Du-na-nu-na-na.

I know it’s terrible, but I have to laugh about my thought processes as an 11 year old; I guess I’ve always been a poet, a fucking little bitch, but still a poet.

Now after admitting that less-than-stellar moment from my childhood, I can honestly say that was the ONLY mean thing I EVER did to that girl – but unbeknownst to me at the time, I had inadvertently begun a 4-year war, however completely controlled by Lynda.

It started with her small, petty tattling, like I had said something or took something from her; stupid shit like that. By the time grade 6 rolled around (and the cruel fates then had us in the same class now) it had escalated so badly that I was a regular fixture outside the Principal’s office. It was ridiculous and frankly annoying the fuck out of me considering I wasn’t doing or saying anything – to which the teachers would then accuse me of lying. In fact, I would go out of my way to avoid her; not ignore her, AVOID her – she was crazy and completely out to get me. By the end of grade 6, I was threatened with suspension if I didn’t start “making an effort” to be nice to her. My parents had to get involved by this point.

There was a bit of a lull in 7th grade, but the tension was always there. They made sure we were separated into different classes. Boys had begun harassing her by then and they were being out-rightly cruel to her, yet she NEVER complained about them, not even once. The climax didn’t occur until grade 8 when, during a school trip to Quebec, she had proclaimed to the teachers that I had threatened to kill her and her family.

WHOA! We were getting into serious shit now. 

You would THINK that some alarm bells would have tingled by this point, but nope. I was completely screwed over that particular incident. They never believed my word; the word of the popular and outgoing girl against that of poor little Lynda. This event also ruined my once-positive relationship with my teachers; it was a nightmare.

The last so-called altercation with Lynda that I distinctly remember was near the end of that year. I was in the hall with a boy from our class and we were laughing about something. She came around the corner and dramatically threw herself against the opposing lockers and screamed, “WHAT NOW? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING ABOUT ME NOW, STEPHANIE?” Both me and the boy I was with just stood there, stunned.

I made the decision to go to a different high school than everyone else; which even trumped a reunion with Kevin! I had many reasons, but one of the top 2 was to get the hell away from that girl. I knew that her obsession with torturing me would follow us into high school and I had to put an end to it. How bizarre that I was perceived the bully throughout all of this. There I was, the “bully”, changing schools to get away from the apparent “victim”. Isn't it usually the other way around?

Fast forward a decade. I had become privy to some top secret information: Lynda had been hospitalized for being a paranoid schizophrenic. NO, REALLY? Again, I would like to think that with today’s greater understanding about mental health that they could have, no, they SHOULD have caught it sooner instead of automatically assuming that it was a simple case of bullying, with ME being the bully.

Do I feel different about her now that I know she was sick that entire time?
Of course.
Does it change the fact that 4 years of primary school completely blew donkey nuts for me?
No.

Is there a lesson in all of this? 
YES!
Don't always assume that kids are lying, or disregard their opinions and concerns solely because of their young age.
They know more than you think; listen to them.

Camp Guilty

My mother always told me that I had "one of those faces" that always made me look guilty - even when I hadn't done anything. I didn't really get into a lot of trouble growing up, but I sure had my moments; when I went out, I went out with a bang, bang, bangity bang ba-bang!*

In grade 8, there were two fairly major trips that we looked forward to: the Quebec trip and the camping trip. Every grade 8 class for decades had been going to the camp that our school district owned; it was the traditional 4-days and 3-nights 'right of passage'.

We all arrived excited and ready to do all the camping-oriented activities... but what was really the best part? The nights by the camp fire, or more specifically, cozy co-ed nights by the fire. It was a huge deal for most hormonal pre-teens, such as ourselves.

The first day when off without a hitch.

We did crafts.
We orienteered.
We went rowing.
We did lame-ass group trust exercises.
We sung songs around the campfire - awe, so snugly.

Of course, the only guy I wanted to snuggle with on that trip was the counselor, who was 21 and mighty fine. What can I say? I had good taste. What's 8 years difference anyway? When he's 48, I would be 40 - no problem! I guess I didn't win him over with my 13 year old feminine wiles; which in hindsight is probably a good thing, because that would have made him officially a pedophile... but I digress.

Time for bed; lights out.
There was only one rule: Girls stay in their cabin; boys stay in their cabin.

I still don't know who had the Jason mask or how the hell I got a hold of it, but about 1/2 an hour after "lights out", I put on the glow-in-the-dark mask and left the girls' cabin. I crept up to the windows of the boys' cabin like a lioness approaching her prey and then I jumped up and in my scariest voice, I yelled:

"ALL YOU MOTHER FUCKERS, GET READY TO DIE!" 

OK. So, as you can well imagine, they all went berserk; I was a god damn legend that night. My shit-disturbing antics then caused them to open their back emergency door, leading to the girls' adjacent emergency door... which was then, of course, also opened. It rapidly escalated into a complete free-for-all.

Pure unsupervised pubescent chaos.

The next morning, the teachers gathered us all together and we were told we were getting sent home; the entire class. In the past, they had had to send specific students home, but NEVER the entire class.

Not once in over 30 years.

The best part? For some miraculous reason, I was never busted or ratted out as being the main instigator. I guess on that particular morning, my guilty face blended in nicely with everyone else's.

* Bang Bang Bangity Bang Ba-bang is from How I Met Your Mother - watch the song here - so damn funny.

Quelle Surprise

How Good Intentions Can Blow Up in Your Face

I had a strange relationship with a particular guy through the majority of high school. We never actually dated, or even kissed, but there was always an unsaid tension between us and whenever I started dating someone else, he usually had a snooty fit with me for a week or two. I think it was the classic symptom of him not wanting me, but didn’t want anyone else to have me either - a male trait that is fairly common.

I always felt like I was probably the only person in the school that understood him and valued him as a friend. His male ‘friends’ (I used that term loosely) didn’t really care about him. He wasn’t out-going enough so he usually got ignored and forgotten when it came time for after school socializing and other events; he was never invited to the big parties. Most of them were certified, card-carrying members of the jock asshole club, and for one reason or another, he wanted so badly to be a part of them – he was like their neglected puppy dog that followed them around. He was slightly awkward but sweet, humble and kind – all opposing qualities from those guys he considered his buddies.

I watched this cringe-worthy dynamic all though the years and it only got worse the older we got... and soon it was time for my friend to have his big 19th birthday. I knew I wanted to do something extra special for him – I don’t think he had anything special done for him by anyone else, ever – besides his own family, anyway. Every year, from grade 9 to grade 12, I had baked him a cake for his birthday and put it in his locker – but for his big ‘One-Nine’ I wanted to do more.

I had planned to take him out for dinner and then I organized for all the assholes to go to the local night club and we would surprise him. I’m sure it would have made his decade... if it went as planned.

I printed up a classy invite for the dinner portion and even his mother and younger sister was in on my scheme. I was actually very close with the sister as well – I considered her my adopted sister. They were very appreciative of my plan for him and agreed that he needed someone do this for him – and I was more than happy to do it.

As much as I despised the jock jerks, they also agreed to the plan – all they had to do was keep their mouths shut and show up to the club. I thought it would be easy, since they ignored him anyway and would probably have ended up at the club regardless – so I wasn’t asking for the moon.

Then his birthday arrived. After 5 years of being neglected, he finally had had enough and gave in to his insecurities. He pestered the jocks all morning about what plans they had that night and then one guy (my least favourite one, of course) caved to the pressure and leaked the plan to him.

Now, what do you think he ‘should’ have done?
Been touched by the plan and gone along with it... right?
No.

He found me at lunch and told me that since he knew the plan, he was just going to go straight out with the guys and NOT have dinner with me. That was the fucking ‘thanks’ I got – not even for just that day, but also for everyday for the 5 years prior to that moment. I felt like he just spat in my face; I was crushed.

After school, I even got a phone call from his little sister. She was angry with ME and told me that I was making HIM feel bad;
I was ruining his birthday. Are you fucking kidding me?
Click.
That effectively ended the relationship with my ‘adopted sister’ as well.

I ended up going with a friend to the club anyway; I probably shouldn't have – but I was pissed off AND heart-broken – not a good combination for me to deal with. I ended up getting drunk and having a great time making out with a hot older guy on the dance floor (that had previously attended our school, so everyone knew him) for the majority of the night. It wasn’t me at one of my most admirable moments, I know that, but I’d like to think that it annoyed the fuck out of my 'friend' (he hated seeing me with other guys, remember). I don’t care what anyone says about "rising above", sometimes revenge feels fantastic!

The funniest part was that about 6 years later, I saw his mother at the local shops and this woman (whom for a long time considered me her ‘eldest daughter’ and I didn’t even have to knock to enter their home) scrunched up her sour face and gave me the-dirtiest-look-ever! Seriously? Wow.

Owe, My Blasphemer

I am a Catholic; I inherited it and sometimes like race or culture, it's not always what you may have chosen for yourself, but you embrace it with a certain amount of pride, often in spite of yourself. That's me and my religion, in a nutshell - we're very love/hate. There are a lot of things I think are VERY hypocritical about the Christian faith - but then again, I find equal amounts of hypocrisy in other religions as well. It's all ridiculous at times.

If I were to proclaim my true beliefs, it would be pretty much word-for-word based on the movie Dogma. "Do you believe?" "No. But I have a pretty good idea." Exactly, Kevin Smith, exactly indeed.

So, grade 8 was the last year that I attended Catholic school. During the final preparation Confessional for our Confirmation (which is kind of like a Bat Mitzvah, but way less celebrated and hardly any, if not no money or presents are received, dammit). I was sitting beside my best friend and due to extreme boredom, her mind started wandering.

My friend leaned over to whisper to me, "Jesus is kinda sexy."

I smiled. "Stop it."

"No. Seriously. Imagine if he actually looked like that? I'd do him."

I'm trying so fucking hard to contain myself. "Shhhhh. STOP."

"He's kinda got the tortured rock star thing happening - but with real torture. That's hot." And then she purred.

I was physically biting my tongue at this point. "Oh my God, please shut up. I'm going to piss myself, seriously!" I could tell she was in it for gold; she wanted me to lose it.

We get an evil glare from one of the teachers and a loudly whispered, "LADIES, SHHHHHH!"

She rolled her eyes back at the teacher and when the coast was clear, she continued, "I wonder how big his dick was. Do you think he ever masturbated?"

Now, I'm getting a headache from trying so hard to hold in my laughter. "I hate you."

"Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey: If you were having sex with Jesus and you yelled out, 'Oh, God' would that be like calling out his father's name during sex, or because of the whole Holy Trinity thing, would it just be like calling out his own name?"

The pressure was too much, but before I laughed, a fart escaped.
One single loud fart.

Then I laughed even louder, mostly to cover up the fart. My voice echoed through the whole church and everyone stopped to look at us. My friend was watching with euphoric delight at the spectacle I made of myself; I completely lost control. My head ached and my stomach hurt from tensing up my muscles for so long.

Of course, it was just me that got punished, as that same teacher pointed to only me with her long, bony finger and said one word: "OUT!"

I managed to make it through my actual Confirmation both laugh and fart free, but since that day, I could never look Jesus in the eyes - even if they were rolled back in his head.

On another note: I haven't been to Confession since that day - when I was still a virgin. Holy mutha fucking shit, I've got a lot of 'splainin' to do! Maybe I'll just give my priest a copy of my book and say, "Here - read this. I'll be back in 2 weeks to discuss. Thanks."

My Heavenly Essay

Most of O.A.C (which was essentially grade 13 in Ontario before they scrapped it) was a breeze and I didn’t overly assert my intellect even at the best of times. One needed 6 O.A.C. credits to get in to University – and that was basically the only 6 results they looked at; the average of these 6 results pretty much defined your tertiary schooling aspirations. I had already done 3 of these credits the year before, which meant I had only 3 to complete in an 8 subject timetable over 2 semesters. Needless to say, I had a lot of free time which was spent mostly in the coffee shop down the street smoking my brains out (ah, the good old days when smoking was allowed in coffee shops) or in the months where the weather was agreeable, we spent hours across the high school in the soccer field brewing bottle tokes and listening to someone playing guitar; not exactly the stressful year of a senior that I expected it to be when I was younger – not that I was complaining.

I decided to take Writer’s Craft for my last credit – Imagine that, me enjoying writing! We were given a choice of the 3 different writing genres for our major assignments (Narrative, Expository & Persuasive). Since I had just spent the majority of the last 4 years writing expository essays, I left that one for last. Even though I thought I would be dragging my heels though it, I decided on the topic “Heaven: Does It Exist?” It was deep and heavy and I’m still not sure why or how I came to that idea, but I got 100% enveloped in my research for this essay... like I said before, I had a lot of spare time. Maybe it was also because it was practically the last piece of written work I would be doing for high school, so I thought I should make this one count.

When I was done, I knew it was awesome.

I was so proud of it that I even got some of my friends to read it – I don’t think any of us read any of each others’ work – we usually didn’t give a shit, but I knew this piece rocked and I wanted to show it off. I estimated that it was at least at a 2nd year University level, if not higher.

I should also mention that since I was a passionate teenager, I had extreme hot and cold relationships with many of my teachers; I LOVED a lot of them and HATED others and most of the time the feelings were mutual. About a week had passed since I handed it in and my teacher asked to see me after class. I approached her desk, which always was buried underneath piles of books and the particular pile closest to her caught my eye because they looked familiar. Rightly so! It was the entire collection of books that I had mentioned in my bibliography. What the hell was going on?

“Stephanie, I can’t seem to find any proof of plagiarism but I cannot, with my conscious, award you the grade that this essay is worthy of; I just cannot believe that you wrote this essay on your own.”

I was stunned and utterly insulted. It wasn’t as if I was a D student that suddenly pulled a diamond out of my ass – I was an A student – low A’s, but still A’s nevertheless. I don’t know what came over me, but for the first and only time in my high school career, I swore at a teacher,

“Are you fucking serious? So what you’re really saying is that I’m not smart enough to have written this essay?!”

Up until that moment, this teacher was probably one of my favourite teachers – I had had her in grade 9 English as well. She was mild mannered, kind and easily approachable – until that day, anyway. Lucky for me, she let my potty mouth slide. I flustered her; it was not like it was my normal behaviour. She essentially replied,

“I don’t want to put it that way, exactly, but I’m sorry to say that I just cannot shake this feeling – so I’ll be taking off 15% from the original mark I gave it – it’s the best I can do.”

Well... I guess that meant I got a 100% because my final mark was 85%. See, I knew it was awesome! So, yes, I still got an A, but that really wasn’t the point. I was still hurt, annoyed and insulted that my teacher had appeared to have spent hours sifting through a dozen books to try and prove that I was a cheater. It was gross – and I had no choice but to strike her from my “Teachers I Loved” list and swap her over to my other list.

2 Ice Cubes & A Diaper Pin

When I was in grade 8 it was in fashion to get more than 1 ear piercing in one or both ears. One or two of my friends had gotten a second earring, but it wasn’t completely mainstream at this point. I really wanted to get mine done, badly! I loved accessorizing, even from a young age. I didn’t have the figure to always wear the clothes that I wanted to; on the inside I was a size 4, but on the outside, I was a 14. At least accessories always fit and helped me to express myself. I couldn’t fit into the tight-fitting funky flared jeans, but at least I could wear the baby blue Kangol hat and co-ordinated Doc Marten boots. They took the attention away from the only style of boring-ass men’s jeans from Mark’s Work Warehouse that fit my figure properly.

And then there was my jewellery... I loved almost anything silver, however the more unique, the better. By the time I was 14, I probably had at least 30 silver rings and too many pendants and earrings to count. All of a sudden there emerged this trend where I should add more holes to my body... that could hold more jewellery! Where could I sign up? I couldn’t wait!

My mother was adamantly against me getting a second earring. She said that one pair was nice, but anything more than that was trashy. She told me that people would think that I’m easy. Now, my mother was a younger mom and was normally pretty progressive, but when she said that I was stunned. It was like I was talking to an old granny. I could even picture her holding a cane in one hand, and with the other waving her boney finger while yelling, “You crazy kids these days!"

I tried bringing up the topic off and on for a couple months – thinking that I could wear her down if she saw that it wasn’t just a fleeting idea and that I really, really wanted to get it done. The answer was always the same and a little louder each time, “Nooooo!”

Finally, I got fed up with my mother’s constant refusal to understand me, and I took matters into my own hands. I sterilized a diaper pin and got a few cubes of ice and went to my room. On any normal day, the thought of needles almost made me pass out, so I still don’t know how I was able to go through with it. I guess my anger and adrenaline helped me power through it.

I sandwiched my earlobe with 2 ice cubes for a good while, until it was really red and cold. I began to push the diaper pin through my earlobe. It wasn’t nearly as sharp as an actual piercing needle, so it went slower than I had hoped. I could hear it breaking through every layer of skin – like a popping sound. Pop – pop – pop! Yuck. I gagged a few times, but I had gone too far to quit at that point. I finally got it to poke through the other side. POP! I took a deep breath. My ear was bright purple and I could feel it throbbing – but I must say that the ice cubes did help. I didn’t really feel a terrible pain, just uncomfortable and disgusting. I waited for a few minutes with the pin hanging from my ear before I attempted exchanging it with an earring.

When I did finally get up the courage, it hurt much more than the diaper pin! Even though they were proper piercing earrings (my original ones from when I got my first pair done) I was, in fact, poking something into an open wound. Ouch, ouch... Done! I must have been insane because then I did the other ear. It went a bit faster the second time.

Now, you’re thinking... wouldn’t her mother see them right away and make her take them out? Well, again, current fashion trends came to my rescue. It was the early 90s and some remnants of 80s geometric fashion were still lingering around like a bad stench. I had a pair of huge plastic circle earrings – I think I originally got them for a Cyndi Lauper costume I wore for Halloween the year before. When I put them on, they completely covered the second piercings. Perfect!

I was able to hide what I had done for a good couple weeks and then both holes got a little infected (big surprise) and I had to take them out on my own volition. I was so sad that my master plan didn’t turn out as I had hoped. My mother saw my slightly mutilated earlobes the next morning as I had them smeared in Polysporin.

I snapped at her, “Don’t even say it! They’re gone, OK?”

She shook her head and walked away. I could hear her laughing and my ears got even hotter and redder than they already were.

Skater guys

I had a love-hate relationship with the ‘cool skater’ guys at my high school. Although I did not fit into the typical cookie cutter ideal of a sexy girl, I never let it hinder my true personality... except with these jerks. When I was with my girlfriends, I was an extrovert, the joker, the center of most conversations and life of the party. All of my girlfriends were beautiful and thin; I never resented them for it, even though I was twice their size. I loved them for who they were, and they just all happened to be gorgeous as well. In turn, they loved me for who I was and we had great times together. It was only this particular group of guys that ever made me feel like total shit– like I was beneath them and not worthy of their attention.

These skater guys were our male counterparts in the chain of high school cliques, which is why I was logically attracted to some of them... we all liked the same type of music, fashion and lifestyle. My friends had had flings or long-term relationships with practically all of them and they never understood why I detested them so much. Although I loved my friends, they really had tunnel vision when it came to how things worked in high school. They didn’t need to see it from any other way – they were pretty and all the guys were always so nice to them – so what else did they need to know, right?

The worst was when one of them had a party. I usually tried to use some excuse not to go, but a few times I was convinced to attend. If it was on a Saturday night, that entire day I would physically feel sick with anxiety. What is worse than hate? I will tell you... It is complete indifference and that is what I got from these guys. The last party I subjected myself to I ended up playing with the family’s pet rabbit the entire night, while my friends all had a fabulous time getting drunk and hooking up with their guys. I left and no one even noticed; I cried the entire way home. The worst part was that I was crying because I was furious with myself for allowing these assholes to reduce me to be a withering wall flower reject. That was NOT who I was on any other day or with any other people. It sickened me that I gave these guys so much power over me. And why? Because they were cool and good looking? Probably. (Insert dry retch here)

It was so hard to contain my nature ability for sarcasm when one of my friends would reveal her latest crush on one of them and ask me, “What do you think of So-and-so? Isn’t he hot? He’s soooo sweet!”

I would raise one eyebrow and reply, “Ya, real sweet... like a fucking peach.” This was met with a defence like, “Oh, com'on! I don’t get why you don’t like him. He really is super nice... you just have to get to know him.”

“Yes, of course he’s nice to YOU– he wants to get into your pants!” This answer was always met with disbelief, even though it was the obvious truth. They didn’t WANT to get to know me because they didn’t want to get into MY pants. It was that simple, and that shallow, and that sad. They missed out on knowing a really cool and fun chick in me. I spent 4 years with these guys and I don’t think any of them said more to me than, “Got a light?”

About 3 years later, I was in line at the bank and I heard, “Stephanie! Hey Steph!” I saw the source of the voice and it was one of the hottest guys from that group of skaters and he was smiling... at me! I stared for a second and looked around. Perhaps there was another Julie that was skinnier and hotter than me standing behind me... but there wasn’t. I looked back at him, slowly waved in shock and forced a little grin. He waved back in affirmation and smiled again.

Wow! I never even thought he knew my name, even though we essentially hung out together for 4 years. It made me realise that some of those jerks from high school actually do manage to grow up, eventually.

The Sweater

In grade 11, I had a briefly lived friendship with Scott, a guy in my graphics class. Of course, I would have wanted more, but even being his mate was good enough for me. He was very cute, but also a little odd, which is why I guess I was drawn to him. He was a ‘member’ of the cool guy squad at our school, although only about middle-management, meaning basically that he was a puppet to the ‘higher-ups’.

It took me until this incident to realize that although girls were always pegged to have serious peer-pressure issues; guys weren’t that different after all. In order to have any kind of relationship with one of these guys, whether platonic or otherwise, the ‘higher-ups’ would have to approve, or some stupid shit like that. I guess the verdict came in that I didn’t make the cut.

Scott and I really got along well; we had a lot of similar interests and I just found that I was comfortable talking to him. Shortly after we first started talking, he started to wait for me every morning at the top of the hill from our school and we would continue together from there. He usually skateboarded to school, so he would either weave around me and talk or just get off and carry it when we walked together. Either way, I really enjoyed our morning chats and looked forward to them.

During school, he didn’t really acknowledge our blossoming friendship, especially when his mates were around. That part I understood and it didn’t bother me too much – I was well aware that most of them were complete douche bags.

Our friendship had gone one step further and he invited me to his house after school a couple of times. I had met his mum and even had dinner with them. Of course, being the curious person that I was, while we were hanging out in his room, I had gone through some of his wardrobe drawers. We had a good laugh when I found a few old items and I also found a really nice black sweater. He said he hated it and that it was a bit ‘faggotty’ for him but I really liked it. He said I could take it, if I wanted to – so I did, and I wore it the next day to school.

He met me that next morning, as usual and everything was cool between us – until lunchtime. I still have no idea how the ‘guy squad’ pieced together that I was wearing Scott’s sweater – it was a pretty generic all-black sweater – but they found out somehow. I guess that let the cat out of the bag, and from there on in, I could only speculate how things went down. I am guessing that they confronted Scott about me and they must have been extremely disapproving or made fun of him, because the next thing I knew, they were all approaching me – like a swarm of hyenas surrounding an injured gazelle. Then Scott yelled at me, “Hey, you stupid bitch! Are you a klepto or something? What they fuck are you doing with my top?”

I really wasn’t sure what was going on, and I didn’t answer for a couple seconds; I was completely terrified. Then, one of the upper-management assholes took over, “Answer him, Klepto Bitch! What the fuck are you doing with his shit?” I didn’t even think that trying to defend my honour would have served a purpose. I just kept leering at Scott, like I was telepathically begging for his help or something, and he didn’t even flinch from his stare of hatred that he reciprocated back in my general direction. Luckily, I was wearing a T-shirt underneath that stupid sweater, and I quickly pulled off the sweater over my head and threw it back at him. The only thing I drummed up the courage to say was, “You can take your stupid fucking sweater, assholes!” And then I ran away, so as to save myself from getting my arse kicked by a bunch of guys, which I wouldn’t have put past them, and also so that Scott wouldn’t see my tears of pure rage that began to burn down my face. I could hear them yelling and taunting me as I ran away as well as them victoriously high-fiving each other.

The next couple months felt like an excruciating eternity. They called me ‘Klepto Bitch’ for the longest time! I tried to ignore it, but it really drove me a little insane. I tried to avoid them whenever possible and if I did see them travelling in a pack, I just cringed and got ready for the insults to be flogged at me. Of course, they were fine when it was just one of them; it was the herd that I had to fear. As for Scott, I didn’t even try to approach him about the situation. It was clear that his role as a ‘puppet’ was far more important than any scrap of friendship that we had developed. If I was forced to come within close range of him in class, he pretty much ignored my existence. It was so disappointing. I hated him and missed him at the same time.

Eventually, their squad started to ignore me in the halls – I guess the joke got old, even for them. It did take quite a while, but it did come to an end and it was so gradual that I barely noticed when it had been weeks since any of them taunted me. Those locusts likely had moved on to someone fresh and new to devour. I usually was out-going, but for once in my life, I welcomed obscurity!