"Get Mommy her pills."
I'm in a bit of a tizzy. I'm not ready for school. Instead of wasting my time wondering what notebook will go best with which backpack, I've been much more concerned about whether or not I will be able to see Superbad the day it comes out. I don't remember Asshole 320 being part of the Creative Writing degree, but man, I wish it was.
I looked back on my summer and realized I spent a majority of the time watching Man v. Wild or sitting at Starbucks in some sort of a stupor thinking about that thing I'm going to write, tentatively called My Book. So far, I have three pages. I've had three pages since June.
June seems like it was just hours ago. A silly little month chock full of promise. You have so much time to fuck around, June teased, that whore, Don't even worry about life!
Don't worry? I do nothing but worry. About everything. I'm Jewish. If I didn't worry, I'd have nothing except my apparent OCD and a recipe for matzo klai soup, both of which have been handed down through my family for generations.
My sister has it easy. She stresses about school until she throws up, which makes her skinny AND smart. On top of that, she can kick any boy's ass at video games and has a great rack, something that I tragically lack.
"You didn't get Mommy's titties?" our family friend, Roger, asks me casually. I'm not one to be shocked, but I turn bright red and button my poplin shirt dress up to my neck so that I now look more nun-like. "That's ok," he shrugs, "You've got a great personality and that's all guys want..." he snorts. "I'm kidding, you should probably look into implants or something. Are you even an A cup?" My eyes go wide and I begin to laugh out of nerves. I'm horribly embarrassed. Something that doesn't happen as often as one might think.
I don't answer him, and my mother steps in, "He's kidding," she consoles me.
He nods, like he agrees, but rolls his eyes, mumbling out of the side of his mouth something that sounds an awful lot like "Touch-y."
Despite my small 'titties', I don't envy my sister at all these days. High school is something I like to pretend never happened in my life. As if I magically went from the careless days of middle school to the seemingly endless college years with nothing in between. Some days, my sister comes home crying about the six different advanced subjects she takes and how she absolutely has to get an A in every class or else she won't grow up to have a fruitful life. It's not rare for her to come home complaining about pesky boys either.
"He keeps poking me in class," she sighs. "I'm, like, trying to listen to my teacher and he won't leave me the hell alone!"
I, on the other hand, didn't have trouble with boys. They naturally ignored me. I wasn't fat enough to totally repulse them, but I wasn't skinny enough to attract them either. However, I did have good hair and refused to have sex so the closet gays and I got along great.
"I wish I went to your high school," my best gay friend Josh lamented to me over sushi. "I probably would have been happier."
"Probably," I remark. "We could have hung out after school doing each other's hair."
Josh looks off into the distance dreamily and I can't tell if he's being dramatic or checking out a boy. I figure a little of both. "We would have had the best hair," he frowns a little.
"Thankfully, we have each other now," I say.
"Hm?" he responds, then sheepishly adds, "I'm sorry, I wasn't really listening, like, at all."
"When did you stop listening?" I ask.
"After I said I the thing about high school," he laughs.
"As my gay best friend, you really should be listening to me," I say. "Everything I utter is terribly important."
Josh smirks, "Even all that shit about Superbad?"
"OK," I shrug, "Maybe not everything."
I looked back on my summer and realized I spent a majority of the time watching Man v. Wild or sitting at Starbucks in some sort of a stupor thinking about that thing I'm going to write, tentatively called My Book. So far, I have three pages. I've had three pages since June.
June seems like it was just hours ago. A silly little month chock full of promise. You have so much time to fuck around, June teased, that whore, Don't even worry about life!
Don't worry? I do nothing but worry. About everything. I'm Jewish. If I didn't worry, I'd have nothing except my apparent OCD and a recipe for matzo klai soup, both of which have been handed down through my family for generations.
My sister has it easy. She stresses about school until she throws up, which makes her skinny AND smart. On top of that, she can kick any boy's ass at video games and has a great rack, something that I tragically lack.
"You didn't get Mommy's titties?" our family friend, Roger, asks me casually. I'm not one to be shocked, but I turn bright red and button my poplin shirt dress up to my neck so that I now look more nun-like. "That's ok," he shrugs, "You've got a great personality and that's all guys want..." he snorts. "I'm kidding, you should probably look into implants or something. Are you even an A cup?" My eyes go wide and I begin to laugh out of nerves. I'm horribly embarrassed. Something that doesn't happen as often as one might think.
I don't answer him, and my mother steps in, "He's kidding," she consoles me.
He nods, like he agrees, but rolls his eyes, mumbling out of the side of his mouth something that sounds an awful lot like "Touch-y."
Despite my small 'titties', I don't envy my sister at all these days. High school is something I like to pretend never happened in my life. As if I magically went from the careless days of middle school to the seemingly endless college years with nothing in between. Some days, my sister comes home crying about the six different advanced subjects she takes and how she absolutely has to get an A in every class or else she won't grow up to have a fruitful life. It's not rare for her to come home complaining about pesky boys either.
"He keeps poking me in class," she sighs. "I'm, like, trying to listen to my teacher and he won't leave me the hell alone!"
I, on the other hand, didn't have trouble with boys. They naturally ignored me. I wasn't fat enough to totally repulse them, but I wasn't skinny enough to attract them either. However, I did have good hair and refused to have sex so the closet gays and I got along great.
"I wish I went to your high school," my best gay friend Josh lamented to me over sushi. "I probably would have been happier."
"Probably," I remark. "We could have hung out after school doing each other's hair."
Josh looks off into the distance dreamily and I can't tell if he's being dramatic or checking out a boy. I figure a little of both. "We would have had the best hair," he frowns a little.
"Thankfully, we have each other now," I say.
"Hm?" he responds, then sheepishly adds, "I'm sorry, I wasn't really listening, like, at all."
"When did you stop listening?" I ask.
"After I said I the thing about high school," he laughs.
"As my gay best friend, you really should be listening to me," I say. "Everything I utter is terribly important."
Josh smirks, "Even all that shit about Superbad?"
"OK," I shrug, "Maybe not everything."