Where life plans go to die

I have never been good with attitude of "whatever happens tomorrow, happens". Fuck that. I need to know not only where my next meal is coming from, but where my next 1000 meals are coming from, at least. And I've always been that way.

I knew in University that I'd be a salary girl. A few of my fellow artist classmates were adamant on going the freelance, suffer-for-your-art route, but the mere thought of that made me twitchy.

Even as a child, I would get stomach pangs in the middle of the night because my father was SO CHEAP and would obsess about money so frequently that I was convinced that we were going bankrupt and we'd become homeless at any moment. Turns out, we were doing just fine. THANKS FOR THAT, DAD.

It's not that I'm obsessed with money or wanting to be rich; I just want to be "stable". The last few years with the twins has been a reality check and I somehow managed to accept the fact that we'd be dipping into the red every month until the boys started full time school -- which would be this September, 2013.

Husband and I had been calling it FREEDOM 2013 pretty much since 2008. From the latter part of 2009 until the day I lost my job in November of last year, we had been paying FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS a month in childcare.

That would have all gone away next week.

Oh my fucking god, we could finally start paying off our other debts! Perhaps pay off our mortgage a little faster. Or actually contribute to RRSPs for us, or RESPs for the kids (which is laughable at the moment). We were going to have $1500 EVERY MONTH to do whatever the hell we wanted. I had been fantasizing withdrawing that amount at the end of September and rolling around in it; I was totally going to do it too.

See? That pretty much would've been me . . . except with Canadian money, obviously.

And I was OK with waiting for that. It was an achievable goal. There was going to be an end to this annoying clusterfuck that is "not having enough money for the Lightning McQueen underwear that the boys want". Even as I write that, I realize it's a "first world problem" but nevertheless, it was a problem for me.

My boys, at 4 years old, have already begun asking me if things are "too much moneys" for them to have, and it truly breaks my heart. I see history repeating itself, except this time it's a real issue.

I should be getting emotional about my babies going off to big boy school next week, but it's really being over-shadowed by all this crap, and I hate it. So, I'm trying my very hardest not to still be bitter about losing my job, but even in my worst case scenario, I didn't see myself STILL being unemployed by this time. And yet here I am.

Unsure about tomorrow and freaking right the hell out.

Oh, and baby number 3 arrives in 6 weeks...

Tick-fucking-tock.

I couldn't stay

There were a few tweaks of interest last week when I mentioned in my "22 Things I've Done" list about how I had to be dragged through the departure gates by airport security.

Oh, yes they did. Well, "dragged" is a tad overly dramatic; perhaps I should use "escorted".

So, there we were -- waiting for my flight to begin boarding. We sat, and sat some more. Nine of my friends came with me to the airport to see me off; nine, including Jason. We sat there, tired, hungover and barely spoke... just waiting. No one knew what to say. Everything had been said the night before, at various points of intoxication. Everyone that was at the airport had been out with me that night, along with a few others that couldn't make it to the airport. There was a lot of drinking, drugs and (only with Jason, of course) a lot of sex. Sad, emotional, drunken, sloppy sex.

We were together that night and into the early hours of the morning. Things were said that made it even more hard to leave that afternoon; things about our future together.

There are a few important points that I must list to paint this picture accurately:
1. As per Rotary protocol, I had to wear my Exchange student jacket at the airport that had a plush platypus sewed on the left sleeve and a kookaburra attached to my right shoulder, like I was a fucking Australian pirate. It was very difficult to be sad and sexy wearing that bullshit.
2. Nick had showed up to the airport as well, but didn't say goodbye since we had fallen out months before. He just wanted to show up, apparently to "stick it to me". D-R-A-M-A.
3. There were a couple Rotarians there as well, but more to make sure I got on the plane, rather than to lovingly send me off - there was no love loss between me and their organization, to put it mildly.
4. I have much of the night before and scenes from the airport on video... that's right, VIDEO. It's the most painful train-wreak collection of footage that I will never be able to delete, nor will I ever fucking show it, so don't ask. Besides, I'd have to convert it to digital and that's just too much effort.

Anyhow, there we all were, silent, staring at the floor, avoiding each other's gazes like we were all awkwardly waiting for me to be executed.

First boarding announcement. 

It came over the speakers and instantly, I began to panic. My hear started to race and I felt as if I was going to be sick. A couple of my friends had also begun to cry. Jason kept holding my hand, constantly varying the degree of tightness. I avoided eye contact with him for as long as possible. I tried to take deep breaths but that just made the panic set in worse.

This was it; I was really leaving.

Second announcement.

We had to start to slowly moving towards the gate at this point. We moved as if the 10 of us were a single giant amoeba, slowly oozing towards the doors. I could feel hands on me, trying to comfort me. One of my friends gave my kookaburra a pet - I knew she meant well but I didn't find it amusing. I wanted to rip that motherfucking bird off my shoulder, but I didn't. My feet started to get heavier and I felt faint - likely due to the mild hyperventilating.

Third announcement.

The Rotarian came over to tell me it was time I went through. Fuck you! But I knew he was right. I was going around the circle for the umpteenth time, saying final-final-final goodbyes, I love yous and promises of writing or calling. Jason was always the last in the rotation. When I knew it was the 'real' final, I began to outrageously weep. I was balancing on hysterical like a tightrope. Jason tried to calm me down, but it didn't matter.

I love you.
    I love you. 
      I love you!

To this day, I'm not sure if one of the Rotarians got security to intervene or not, but a giant hunk of a woman approached me and asked if I was ready for my flight in a very stern yet condescending tone. She shuffled me through the automatic sliding doors, but I couldn't see anything from the tears, nor did I care. I looked back one last time when the doors slid open again for someone else and all my friends were still there. I tried to run back, but the woman now had a firm hold of me... and my passport.

The rest is a blur. I don't remember getting on the plane whatsoever. I just remember the sadness and desperation. It was nearly a 20 hour flight with 2 stop-overs. I was OK until I saw the CN Tower, then I started all over again. The poor person sitting beside me didn't know what the hell was wrong with me. I really, really didn't want to leave Melbourne, my friends, my love.

What can I say? Me and airports do not go well together.
It seems as though I'm always saying goodbye to significant chapters of my life whenever I'm at one.
Maybe I should just stop moving.

{Photo credit: Steve Davidson}

My Life - The Soap Opera

I've almost always been so grateful for the relationship that I have with my mother. I had to say 'almost' because of course, no mother/daughter relationship is perfect and we have had our ins and outs - especially through my tumultuous teen years where I was a hormonal lunatic.

We have always been open with each other and I know a lot of my friends were always envious of how I could talk to my mother about topics that most of their mothers would either slap or ground them for mentioning. My mother has helped me work through a lot of tough times, and I'd like to think that it has been mutual as I've grown up.

A few months ago, during my "third life crisis" as I'm becoming to refer to it as, I was talking to my mother on the phone, trying to get some comfort from her words.

"...but it's been 15 years. Why do I still feel like my heart broke just yesterday?"

"It often feels like that for me and it's been 33 years."

"That's not helping."

"Sorry."

"My father. You still miss him? Even having been remarried for all these years?"

"Always."

--> About here is where I began to sob. <--

"I know this sounds awful but he died; that's absolute closure I think I could deal with easier than whatever it is I'm stuck in. But instead, he's out there... alive, somewhere else... not loving me."

"I know what you mean; it doesn't sound horrible. You just have to live your life the best way you can. I have been re-married for 26 years now - and you? You are just starting your family. We survive. Everything happens for a reason."

OK. Now fast forward to last week.

I'm watching Day of Our Lives, as I do every fucking day. I don't need a lecture, thank you. I exposed my addiction a long time ago -- deal with it. It functions more like comfortable background noise to me than anything else... until this week. The dialog between fire-cracker granny Alice Brady and her bat-shit crazy granddaughter Sami (Alison Sweeney) made me almost choke on my cheerios. It went like this:

"I know this sounds awful but grandpa died - he's at peace. But Rafe is out there... alive, somewhere else... not loving me."

"Surely you're not saying you would rather him be dead!"

"Of course not! I'm just saying that you were able to mourn him. But me? I'll always be wondering where he is... what he's doing... who he's with..."

Ummm... so, yes. It's official! My life has become a soap opera.

Dear Days of Our Lives Head Writing Team, Thank you for using my life as inspiration for you recent dialog. I still don't know how exactly you mananged to over-hear my conversation with my mother, but nevertheless, I am giving you fair notice: I want my fucking cut! Yours faithfully, Lady Estrogen

Halloween Rollercoaster

It was the first Halloween that I celebrated in full teenage fashion, complete with a bottle of vodka and not one but two parties to which both I was expected to make an appearance. Previous years, after I was too old to trick-or-treat, I would stay home and help my mom give out candy – so this was definitely going to be a much better night. I had bought a black short cut dress for a semi-formal a few months prior and I thought I would take the opportunity to take it out for another night on the town. I have to admit that I felt absolutely sexy in that dress. It had a crisscross ribbon lace-up all the way up the back and tucked me in and pushed me out in all the right places – Yeowza! The first time I put it on was for Jim. Did he like it? We ended up having sex right there on the kitchen counter, so I took that as a big ‘YES!’

This time around I camped it up a bit by slicking my hair back, putting on an obscene amount of make-up, got some fishnet stockings and a cheap pentagram necklace and... Voila! I became a sexy witch, and I felt a whole new level of confidence that was new to me; I loved every second of it.

I showed up at the first party – I had met the host, Kevin, at my karate class and he lived close to where I was staying at the time. When he opened the door, he looked me up and down like he desired a piece of well-done meat – and I fuckin’ loved it; it definitely wasn’t attention that I was use to. It wasn’t a large party, but I enjoyed myself with him and his friends. There was a lot of drinking and flirting going on and one thing led to another and my sexy dress ended up around my waist and I was deflowering Kevin. I felt like an empowered seductress, especially with my ‘Halloween’ costume. I didn’t know that it was his first time before hand, but the congratulatory clapping and cheering when we emerged from his bedroom was an obvious giveaway.

We partied for a while afterwards and more beverages were passed around and each subsequent one went down smoother and smoother. I managed to catch the last train to my next party destination, where I was planning to finish the night, so I showed up with my remaining booze in one hand and my sleeping bag in the other. I was still amazed that I found my way there, in the state I was in by that point. This party consisted mostly of people from school, although not the usual group I hung out with and there were a few that I had never met before that night. I had a couple relatively close friends in this group, but not many.

I was already stumbling over both my words and my feet when I arrived. I had time to have some slurred jokes and socializations with a few people and then I had to find somewhere to collapse. I wasn’t completely passed out – I was vaguely aware of my surroundings – but my head and every limb felt like they each weighed a tonne and I felt glued to the couch and sunk deeply into it.

The next thing I remember was the hot, stinky breath that was heating up the right side of my face. I heard a sleazy moan into my ear telling me I was gorgeous, but I could barely turn my head away, let alone muster up enough consciousness to tell this guy to ‘Fuck Off’. I then felt his hand start at my chest and quickly moved down to go up and under my dress. He dug his thick fingers under my stockings and underwear like a slimy eel lurching through the reeds. I tried to push him away but I was paralyzed. The thought of this guys fingers thrusting in and out of me made me want to vomit – it still does to this day. I managed to figure out who it was, which made it worse because even earlier, while I was still vertical I thought he was creepy; Dwayne. Even the sound of that name makes my skin crawl.

Luckily, one of the few people I knew at the party caught Dwayne in act and yelled at him to get away from me. I was infinitely grateful, even if I couldn’t verbalize it at that moment. A couple hours had passed and I managed to prop myself up on the couch; it must have been about 4am. That same friend noticed and came over with a nice glass of water and sat next to me. I put my head on his shoulder and cried; I had never felt so dirty in my entire life. It was at that moment that I understood why some rape victims scrub themselves in the shower until they are raw – that’s exactly what I wanted to do. I needed to scrub the Dwayne off of me.

So needless to say, it was a substantially eventful Halloween, but not like how I could ever had foreseen it when I first put on that dress earlier that afternoon. It was a Halloween rollercoaster that I would never forget, for both good reasons and some bad reasons that I wish I actually could forget – but instead they are permanently seared into my brain. Kevin and I went through a lot together and he remains a life-long friend of mine, whereas even the mere mention of someone with the name of ‘Dwayne’ makes me gag a little and I cross my legs; I never wore that dress again.

Happy Fuckin' New Year (Part B)

The climax at the house of horrors occurred after New Year’s Eve. I had returned home from spending it with friends and Burt was suspiciously in a good mood and wanted to know about my night. “Did you have a fun New Year’s Eve?” he questioned me with a smile.

“Yes, it was great, thank you.”

He continued, still smiling, “Did you toast in the New Year with some bubbly?”

Of course, I got absolutely shit-faced, but since drinking was against the rules, I would have never revealed that detail, yet still I stupidly replied, “Just a sip, ya know, for the toast.”

His smile instantly turned into an angry frown. “That’s it! You have crossed the final line!” (I was trying to think of the other lines I skipped to get to this final one.) “You are going to be on the next plane home! I am calling your counsellor right now!” It was so utterly bizarre that I wasn’t sure what just happened; it was like entrapment by Dr. Jeckle and Mr. Hyde. Margaret had the most despicable smirk on her face, as if watching her husband try and ruin my life turned her on. Luckily, my counsellor was amazing and was quick to extinguish the fire on that phone call. I could tell that Burt’s lack of power to have me sent home annoyed him to the greatest extent. He looked up at me and ended with, “You are grounded until further notice!”

About 2 long weeks had gone by – being grounded during school holidays was torture in that house, especially when Margaret was there ALL-THE-TIME, ready to degrade me whenever it suited her needs. I actually began to develop suicidal thoughts after awhile. I felt like those 4 months would never end and it would be easier to just kill myself. All I did was get up, eat, check the mailbox, and then go to my room to lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling; I had way too much time to think and I went a little nuts.

Did I mention it was my 17th birthday? Right... it didn't exist, really. Apart from my parents calling, I spent it in my room. My boyfriend delivered flower to the house, which was sweet, but I'm sure that was some kind of punishable offence as well.

After the third week, the student that had gone to my school back home (and became one of my good friends), was arriving home – which happened to be about 2 hours from where I was staying. I mentioned to Margaret that my friend was coming home and she actually sat down with me and helped me plan out how I was to get to my friend’s town. It was probably the only time Margaret ever showed interest in anything I did.

The morning came when I was to go; I had gotten ready early and was on my way out the door when Margaret cut me off. “WHERE THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?”

“To my friend’s welcome home party; it’s today.”

Her triple chin wobbled like a rooster as she yelled at me, “I never said you could ‘actually’ go! Get back to your room! You aren’t going anywhere today!”

WHAT THE FUCK? This woman was seriously sociopathic! I honestly thought that she must suffer from split personality disorder, or something! I couldn’t explain why she got off on being so evil to me. Something inside me snapped that moment. I didn’t get to go see my friend that day, but I did run out of the house and down the street. I could her Margaret yelling at me to get back in the house. She was so furious that her warbling voice was cracking. I needed to breathe fresh air. My heart was pounding and I couldn’t remember ever experiencing such anger and detest for anyone or anything before; it was over-whelming. It must have been a panic attack. After about 10 minutes of pacing around the block, I was able to calm down enough to return back to the house and go to my room. Margaret must have heard me return, as I slammed the door as hard as I possibly could, but she never came after me again... that day.

The week after that, school started and the last few weeks of my sentence with them went a lot quicker. When they delivered me to my next family, I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. The new family offered them to stay for a coffee and my eyes widened in panic. Luckily, they declined and if was up to me, I would have never seen the pair of those fucked up people ever again in my entire life.

The drama with them didn’t end that day, however. Their vendetta against me continued long after I had left their house. Why? Where their lives that pathetic? Apparently so! When I was away on a school trip, they had gone behind my counsellor’s back and called an emergency meeting with the Board. They told the Board that I was a dangerous person that tried to stab them with a knife and threw furniture at them! I’m not exaggerating – these were real people! My counsellor had revealed all this drama to me after I returned from my trip. Luckily, only the two of them were insane, and the Board didn’t believe them, nor did they appreciate their sneaky methods by going over my counsellor’s head, but still – what was wrong with these people?!

I had to see Burt every week at the club meetings, but I only ever saw Margaret once more. It was at a dinner function and usually she was very calculated at hiding her true nature in public, but I guess she hated me so much that she slipped up this time. I was sitting at a circular table with 7 other adults from the club when she came over and forcefully flicked some letters right at my face - trying to physically hurt me with paper. With a tone of repugnance, she simply snarled, “Here’s your mail!” Everyone’s jaws at the table dropped in silence. FINALLY! It took her own doing, but finally there was proof (apart from the hearsay sobbing of a 16 year old) that this woman was deranged.

Sometimes I think that having to live with them was karma punishing me for falling in love with my host-brother at my previous house. Does it work that way? Who knows! What I did know was that no one knew about my relationship with Jim – not even my counsellor (at that point), so I still had no explanation as to why this certifiably insane couple agreed to take me in. I was going to mail them some pamphlets on schizophrenia as a joke, but I chickened out. I told my counsellor that what was done was done, but that he had to promise me that they would NEVER be allowed to host another student, NOT FUCKING EVER! He undoubtedly agreed.

--------------------------------------------
Re-posted for Wicked Wednesdays, Dec 29, 2010

Illegal? Kinda. Sorta. Maybe.

My best friend decided to switch to the Senior Public in our town, while I remained at the 1-thru-8 Catholic school. It seems as though she picked up a lot of “skills” shortly after she transferred, and then would enlighten me with her new knowledge, notably shoplifting. Turns out, I was GREAT at it. I was a natural-born, sticky-fingered, over-privileged cliché. I was completely addicted to the adrenaline rush, which never seemed to deplete the more I stole. I just took bigger and more risky things. This was also before CCTV was everywhere, and only really Music Stores had the electronic security systems (which were no match for me [insert evil laugh here]). I would usually go with a friend and we would buy a 25¢ bag from the department store and then completely fill it. My mom never questioned anything, mainly because I had a job and was making about $50 a week (which was a lot for a 14 year old).

There was an entire year where I was out of control. I would even steal when I was shopping with my grandparents. When I started high school, I was taking orders from other kids for perfumes, clothes, hats, jewellery, makeup, you name it. The perfume was my forte, particularly anything Calvin Klein. Then, my life as a career petty thief came smashing to a halt.

The girlfriend I was with that day took pride in thinking that older men found her sexy... so when we were in the parking lot of the department store and a man approached us, she distinctively assumed he was trying to pick her up. “What’s in the bags, ladies?” I started to feel a bit sick to my stomach, like it was on fire and getting hotter and heavier by the second. I knew what was going on. My friend was still in some kind of pathetic denial and was performing a disturbing flirt routine on this man who was at least 3 times our age. He then grabbed the bags and said, “I’m pretty sure there are items in here that you young ladies did not pay for, and you are both under arrest!” JESUS FUCKING MURPHY.

I became slightly light-headed and all I could think about was how D-E-A-D I was going to be when my parents found out. I was totally petrified. We were brought into a room in the back of the store and he got our phone numbers to call our parents. My mother showed up first. Her eyes were on fire. I think it was a combination of angry tears and pure hell fire. We got into the car and after a few rounds of yelling the “What were you thinking?” speech, she swore. I had never heard her swear before. “Just you fucking wait until your father gets home!” Oh Shit. I’m actually going to die. He freaks out on me if I chew with my mouth open... what the hell is he going to do with this information? One thing I was certain...that weird vein in the middle of his forehead was totally going to rupture.

Then... days past... and nothing. It was torture. He never confronted me. NEVER. I almost wanted him to just get it over with. Maybe he was just TOO angry or disappointed. It was weird. I was grounded for a month. My official punishment was that I was banned from that particular store (rhymes with Smears) for 1 year and I had to write an essay on shoplifting. The one thing I learned while writing that was that they purposely put items of “interest” in inconspicuous locations to actually encourage shoplifters to take them... and then bust them. That’s twisted! Why not just keep the perfume under glass and everyone goes home happy. I guess the security guard needs to earn his salary somehow.

That day pretty much cured my kleptomania, although I did have isolated lapses during the next couple years. It was hard to stop, and I believe it was an addiction. I think the scare of that day helped, and the reality that the next time I would likely experience the back of a squad car. No thanks!

Forbidden Love (Part 2)

So, I had fallen in love with the son of the people I was staying with during my school exchange. It was all hush-hush and devastatingly romantic...until his mother had found a poem I had written to him. She really gave him shit, but hadn’t confronted me about it. We knew we had to put the brakes on our relationship – or at least be much more cautious about it. Over the past few weeks, we had become rather risky and stupid with our liaisons. We really didn’t know how to act casual with each other; it wasn’t as if we fell out of love and gone our separate ways like a normal break-up. One night, Jim was working in his dark room and I knocked to come in. I went over to sit on the chair and said nothing. There were only the red lights on in the room. He looked over at me and started to cry, hard. Then he came over to me, knelt down before me and through his tears, he professed, “I’m so scared that I won’t be able to live without you. What we have is more than I ever thought was possible. You are my whole life and I want to be with you for the rest of my life.” He then rested his head in my lap and we just sat there and cried together in silence.

Although we did make a fair effort into calming down our physical relationship, we had made strategic arrangements every couple days to steal some time to be together. Sometimes it was just long enough for an affectionate kiss, and sometimes we had time for more. I wished those moments with Jim could have lasted forever.

As I was coming home from school one afternoon, I saw him over the hill. As he walked towards me, I could see he was pale and looked like he had been crying. He grabbed both my shoulders and caught his breath long enough to look me straight on and explained in absolute panic, “Mum knows everything. She might be having you sent home!” My stomach churned over and over. I really thought I was going to be sick right there on the sidewalk. My skin felt like it was on fire and I was slightly disoriented. Jim grabbed my hand and we walked slowly back to the house together, as if we were walking towards the noose of our death sentence. I wanted to run away, but really, where were we going to run to? I was 17 and in a completely different continent than my entire family.

Jim’s father was waiting at the door. He escorted us into the living room and sat down. “We should very well have you on the next plane home! Do you have any bloody idea what you have done?” His voice escalated the more he continued, “What the hell were you thinking? Ya know, for once I wish you god damn teenagers would think with your brains instead of your bloody hormones! I won’t decide anything until Mum gets home. She is the one that figured it out. The both of you have hurt her beyond words! As for me? I’m just absolutely blown away with all this!”

The minutes up to, and including her arrival were an agonizing blur. I was kneeling beside her chair, and we were both crying. I think I said “Sorry” at least 20 times. Although the major feeling was panic and fear, I was also a bit resentful that I was put in this situation. I mean, really... Hurt you beyond words? We didn’t murder someone, we fell in love! Why was it so terrible? Unfortunately, I knew it was far too risky to ask questions. I was fucked already; I needed to keep my big mouth shut and not rock the already-sinking-ship.

“I already had had words with my son, but apparently, that wasn’t enough! Since I discovered the condoms in his rubbish, I could not deny the situation any longer. I am so disappointed in both of you!” She paused to compose herself.

I was screaming inside my head, “WHAT? Condoms...in the rubbish? We had given up on condoms weeks ago – it took too much time. He hadn’t disposed of evidence from 3 weeks ago? What an idiot!” I couldn’t believe how careless he had been; my mind was racing.

She then delivered her decree, “Now, I did a lot of thinking and I’ve decided I don’t want anyone to know about this entire mess. It would make our family look bad, so we are all going to pretend that it never happened and try to make the best of the next month before you move on to your next placement... Is that clear to the both of you?”

“Yes, thank you!”

Jim also had let out an injured, “Yyyyyes.”

After her decision was made known, she got up to leave. Jim’s dad had left the room and she leaned over and whispered to the 2 of us, “I knew every single time that you thought you were sneaking up to his room at night. I just couldn’t ignore it any longer.” Eick! I cringed when she said that and became VERY grateful to her that she had never chosen to bust in on us. I don’t know who would have been the most dramatized by that– myself, Jim, or her?

The remaining time I had left at their house was a depressing eternity. I never wanted to be apart from Jim, but at the same time, I couldn’t wait to leave! The entire situation was toxic. Every time either of his parents looked at me, I felt them psychically attempting to burn the word ‘whore’ into my forehead. Jim had chosen to pretend that I didn’t exist; he spent most of his time in his room. The 4 of us had become emotionless zombies when we were forced to share each others’ company, like at family meals. His brother, however, remained totally oblivious throughout the entire ordeal.

I was emotionally exhausted by the time I left. It was like living every day only 6 inches away from the one person I loved the most in the world, but there was a piece of bullet-proof glass wedged in between us. I could see him, but couldn’t touch him, and he wouldn’t let me talk to him either. I would break out into random fits of tears at any given time, at home, on the train, in the middle of class – it didn’t seem to matter; I had totally lost control of myself. I knew one thing for certain: There was no way in hell I was going to let a love like what Jim and I had just die without a fight. It wasn’t like a breakup where one person was over it and the other was in denial. We both felt the same way about each other, yet we were apart. It was an impossible situation, and it wasn’t over... not just yet.

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!