[Originally posted February, 2010. Re-sharing now because I'm feeling nostalgic.]
So my best friend from high school (also known as “Queen Bee“) just sent me a copy of a note that I apparently wrote her from my tenth grade algebra class. It is both hilarious and horrifying at the same time.
I’ve blacked out some names to protect the innocent but you get the idea.
A few notes:
- I learned NOTHING in 10th grade Algebra II.
- I crushed on the Cute Boy on and off from the 7th through 10th grades, but he never wanted to be anything more than friends. I look back on photos from that time and I’m baffled.
- The Arch Nemesis was alternately a Best Friend (also on and off) all the way from elementary school, through junior high, high school and beyond. Our love/hate relationship eventually turned to just hate. I have no idea what she’s up to now and refuse to friend her on Facebook to find out.
- I have no idea who the boy is I didn’t want to like me, have no idea what “Gertrud’s” was, and don’t remember anything about that Thanksgiving.
- My Algebra II teacher was a very short, very quiet Hispanic man who always wore his belt buckle to the side, not in the middle. There was a rumor floating through school that this signified his dedication to Witchcraft and the Dark Arts. Having snuck into the theater that summer to see The Witches of Eastwick, and having tried several spells from The Modern Witch’s Spellbook (none successful, but probably because I substituted many ingredients and had no idea what “parchment” was), I considered myself an expert on this matter and believed the rumor completely.
- I still have my copy of The Modern Witch’s Spellbook and I know what parchment is now, so don’t fuck with me.
- The scariest part of this note is the fact that some idiot gave a 10th grader a Visa card. I don’t remember this particular credit card but I am absolutely certain of three things:
(a) My mother had no idea I had it
(b) I used it to purchase things like L.A. Looks styling gel, Jellies, posters of Sting and the Cure (likely found at Spencer’s in the mall), lip gloss and random cassette tapes for my Walkman until Visa cut me off and I never paid the balance
(c) My mother will leave a comment here about this being the beginning of my long career of fiscal irresponsibility, or something to that effect
- The “Love You Always” special L-turns-into-A effect was painstakingly conceived and devised because I believed I needed my own “signature” to stand out from all the other note-writers. For about a semester, every note I wrote was signed this way.
- When I showed this to the BFF, her response was this: “It’s odd how you have changed very little. When I saw the seating chart, I thought it was a building you wanted to throw that chick off of.” I’m really not sure what this says about me.
- Oh yeah. It says that I’M AWESOME. And have been since at least the tenth grade.
P.S. If you use Internet Explorer, my blog has decided that you’re an asshole. Not ME, my blog. So you can’t leave a comment. Should be fixed this weekend but until then you can either (1) use an Internet browser that DOESN”T suck gross, hairy balls or (B) close your eyes and wish really really really hard to leave a comment. (Helps if you rub something.) Thanks for playing.
P.P.S. Okay, my web guy fixed the Internet Explorer issue and it turns out that I did something to fuck up that post so it wasn’t my BLOG that decided you were an asshole, it was ME. On accident. Sorry. You’re not an asshole. You’re awesome. You can like my blog again, and leave a comment, and you don’t even have to rub anything.
P.P.P.S. Unless you want to. Rub something, I mean.
P.P.P.P.S. I would do both, if I were you.
P.P.P.P.P.S. What I’m trying to say is, according to me and my blog, you are no longer an asshole.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Okay, you MIGHT be an asshole. I don’t know. I don’t know you. You could be the biggest asshole on the planet, for all I know.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I’m pretty sure my web guy thinks I’M an asshole.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Having all of these P.S.es probably makes me even MORE of an asshole.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. It should be noted that if you’re my mom, you’re definitely NOT an asshole.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Hey, Mom, can I borrow some money?Stumble it!