tamika passmore (but not her homewrecking sister)

29 Jun

The night of my senior prom was pretty much a disaster. I had been dating my boyfriend  (Jacob Frost) for almost two years, and to put it nicely, our relationship was on it’s way out, and I think we both knew it. As much as we fought, we were like a lovey episode of Barney compared to one of the couples we went to dinner/shared a limo with: Natalie Bank and Randy Brown. The group consisted of me and my three best girlfriends now Natalie, Hollie Rice, and Rachel Castillo (but I was just getting to know them back then), and this random other girl who was introduced to me that day (and then I was pulled aside to be told to not be my usual offensive self around her because she was just coming out of a physically abusive relationship. damn, cuz “bitch was askin’ for it” was always my favorite catchphrase), and of course all of their dates.

I honestly don’t remember all that much about my senior prom, probably because I blocked out the traumatic sequence of events. But I think Natalie spilled something on Randy, at the restaurant (which we found out later had serious mafia connections), or vice versa. Words describing things Jacob and I were planning on doing to each other later that night were exchanged (if you know what I mean).

Then we went to prom. Blah, blah, blah. Boy, I miss all those people (not).

After prom, I had an after party at my place. If you’ll remember from my previous post, I had moved out of my parent’s house, and was living in an apartment complex with three older guys. We’d procured a keg and spent the night playing Beirut, which I found out in college was just a pretentious east coast way of saying Beer Pong. I was way too morally superior and uptight to drink at this point in my life, so I ended up crashing pretty early despite the party that raged around me.

I found out the next Monday at school that my prom buddies had all went back to Hollie’s house (with a small entourage following), had sex with their dates, and then fallen asleep. The story that slowly revealed itself as the week went on, was that Randy, in a classic asshole move, had woken up in the middle of the night and fucked this girl Janine Passmore in the bathroom. This wasn’t just Natalie’s prom date. They had been dating since freshman year, she had lost her virginity to this prick, and then he spent the week telling Natalie that Janine was a liar, until he finally broke down and admitted his guilt.

I don’t think Randy even has a Facebook account, and I sure as hell won’t ever be friends with that bitch Janine, just on principle, but I am, for some reason, friends with her sister Tamika, who I’ve never spoken a single word to. This all went down ten years ago, and I still can’t pee in the Rice’s downstairs bathroom without thinking about that night.

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luther decaro (and libby briner)

28 Jun

I went almost my entire childhood never getting into any serious trouble.  As my high school graduation approached, I had managed to nearly complete my education without so much as a detention (avoided by the portable cleaning incident of 1999). However in my last semester of my senior year, you could say the shit hit the fan.

It started when my parents and I got in an argument that resulted in me moving out.  My dramatized version is that I was kicked out.  Their version is that I threw all their good parenting back in their faces and broke their hearts by leaving voluntarily.  The truth is somewhere in the middle.

Regardless of the reasons, I was an eighteen year old high school student, living on my own, way over stressed than my age and assumed responsibilities called for. In addition to an almost full-time job, I was juggling classwork and my responsibility as the editor-in-chief of a 200 page yearbook. There were a lot of factors that contributed to the trouble I am about to detail.  One was me being overwhelmed by my own life. The other was a ridiculously unqualified yearbook advisor. And the last probably was the lurking idea that maybe, just maybe, nothing I was doing would end up mattering in my adult life.

Without boring you, dear reader, with the boring logistics and pricing details of a high school publication, let me just say that often in order to meet deadlines on time, our staff would submit false text with the intention of replacing it in proofs.  Text was free to replace but pictures were not. This particular year, each staff member used their actual signature as a byline – in the form of a picture, meaning it was irreplaceable in proofs.

For our senior section, we drew names of several seniors to write features on to be sprinkled throughout the senior portraits. One name that was drawn was Luther Decaro.  Luther was actually somewhat of a friend of mine. I say somewhat because we shared a homeroom, had almost all of our classes the last four years together, and were on the same team in math league. We got along well but didn’t hang out outside of school or anything. I knew Luther had had a difficult senior year. After going his entire life with perfect attendance, he had suffered a severe eye infection and had to miss weeks of class. When he returned he wore an eye patch, something that we all know that when paired with math league, results in social destruction. So in order to make a deadline, I wrote a half ass story about Luther’s difficult year with the intention of actually interviewing Luther and changing it by the time proofs were due.

When proofs came around, I was swamped with other work, so I gave the Luther story to my assistant editor, Libby Briner, an extremely capable writer. She went to pull Luther out of his AP chemistry class to interview him, explaining that she was doing a favor for me, and he responded by saying, “Tell her to go fuck herself.”

Libby and I were flabbergasted by his response. Not only was it completely unwarranted, but it was just plain rude. I remember Libby and I joked around about how you should never insult someone with the power of the pen, we had our laugh about the revenge we could exact and then we got back to work. And this is where my negligence comes in. Maybe I was concerned about more important articles. Maybe I was concerned about how I was going to pay for groceries when my new roommate was stealing fifties out of my money jar. Whatever the reason, I simply forgot about the Luther article. The problem of the missing article simply went away.

Because we were such a sorry yearbook staff that year and we’d missed several deadlines, our books didn’t arrive until the day before our graduation ceremony. Being in such a powerful position, I took my own book home that night, as well as procuring copies for a couple of my close friends, but the plan was to distribute the rest of the books to everyone between graduation practice and the ceremony itself the next day. A girl at school had a small brunch before graduation practice, and one of their guests was a friend of mine who brought his yearbook to show off to everyone attending. It was at this little soiree that the Luther article was discovered. Coincidentally, Luther was also at this party.

The article basically said: 1- Luther had perfect attendance his entire life until he was struck with a nasty bout of gonorrhea of the eye. 2- When Luther isn’t competing in math competitions, he spends his time watching animal porn (a true story, as screen captures had already been emailed around of him IMing a friend about how he was NOT looking at animal porn, while a nasty picture of a frisky and well-endowed donkey is open in the next window).

In addition to being ultimately responsible, as editor-in-chief, for everything published in that yearbook, due to my intentions of writing the original story and the added expense of replacing pictures, this story was followed with the big fat signature of yours truly. Needless to say, the parent of the girl throwing the party butted into my business and called the principal. I mean jeez, everyone knows that no one actually READS their yearbook anyway!

It took a few hours for the trouble to catch up with me. I left graduation practice and hurried to my boyfriend’s house because I still had to finish writing my commencement speech. Mid afternoon, as I’m struggling with with which 19th century author to quote, I get a frantic phone call from my mother telling me that the principal has been trying to reach me all day. He wants to see me and my parents in his office immediately.

I go to school, realizing with a strange feeling of dread, that this is the first time I’ve ever seen the inside of his office. I don’t remember much about that meeting, except that it began with him telling me he couldn’t let me walk at graduation, which resulted in me crying and unable to speak coherently the rest of the meeting. I guess a broken version of what had happened managed to come across somehow (as well as my convincing argument that I had no idea what gonorrhea even was), and later that afternoon, my story was corroborated by the other assistant editor. In a last minute ruling, I was granted permission to walk and make my speech.

Libby, who was to take my position as editor the following year, was removed from the staff. The advisor was relieved of her duties. Several teachers and a few yearbook staff members pulled together to cut the Luther article out of every yearbook, an action that caused an even greater uproar by the father of our class president who was featured on the other side of the page. Luther from what I heard, was really pissed at me for like a year, but never mentioned this to my face. We rarely see each other at parties, and exchange brief friendly conversation, but we never speak of the gonorrhea incident, though it lingers between us like an image of a man boning a donkey burnt into a computer screen.

Veronica Mobley (Veronica Sawyer)

18 Oct

One of my many jobs in high school (I was quite the Jill of All Trades afterall…. okay, more like the Jack actually. Lay off, jeez!) was at the local movie theater. Now… the town I grew up in was very… difficult to describe. To this day I cannot figure out if it is more po-dunk redneck or gangster ghetto. Allz I knowz is, the classiness of its citizens leaves something to be desired (present company excluded if I know you. maybe.)

Like most jobs, the movie theater had two types of employees: high school students looking to make their $5.25/hour to pay their car insurance and buy Fossil watches for their sweeties on their one-year anniversary (note: most of these students ended up marrying said sweetie) and the people that I like to call, The Best They Could Doers. Meaning, they dressed up to come to work everyday, tried really, really hard to make the best popcorn possible, and basically kissed ass until they were given an assistant manager position (or similar) and an hourly rate of $5.75 an hour.

Veronica Sawyer bewildered me because she didn’t fit in either of these categories. At first glance she seemed to be a high school student, but after forty-five seconds of conversation, it became clear that this girl probably didn’t make it out of middle school in one piece. She was a sixteen year-old dropout, but wasn’t even attempting to strive as hard as The Best They Could Doers. Here was a girl that really needed to make something of this job and she couldn’t even figure out the slushee machine. Mostly, I felt sorry for Veronica and I tried being nice to her, even though every conversation with her was worse than watching a kitten being murdered while a hyena screams in your ear.

One day, there was a problem on one of the screens, and I went upstairs to tell Eric Mobley, the projectionist. I couldn’t find him upstairs at all. Now the theater I worked at was pretty old school, the projection booth was one long room along the entire length of the theater. I don’t know what ultimately made me look, maybe I heard a moan or some other noise, but I happened to glance out one of the windows into an “empty” theater. Well I found Eric. Veronica had her skirt hiked up and they were fucking right there in the middle of the theater. I mean, of course I watched them finish, but then I quietly, and respectfully went downstairs and didn’t say a word. Except to my best friend. And his brother. And his brother’s algebra class.

Flashforward ten years. Veronica Mobley (yes, she married that Best They Could Doer, even though he was 20 years her senior) and I are friends on Facebook, a friendship she initiated and I seriously considered denying. Her status updates bring me back to the days of the Innocent Kitten Slaughter. She thanks God for everything. “Diet Coke was on sale at Publix today. Praise Jesus!” “I just made cupcakes. God is good.” But the interesting thing is when she announced that it was “Mommy Day” on Facebook today, she listed the date that her first son was born. I did a little quick math, and realized that I may have actually witnessed his conception. Praise God!

calvin fonda

3 Aug

I mentioned before that I’m a crazy drunk bitch at holiday parties. Or parties in general. When I got an invitation for my first holiday party at my grown-up job, I could barely contain myself. Here I was, a small town girl, thinking that open bars were reserved for weddings and movie star parties. But I was told that for four glorious hours, I could pour as much alcohol down my throat as I wanted. For free!

I had only been working there for a couple months, so there were several people at the party that I’d never met before.  Calvin Fonda, a boy my age took an immediate interest in me and began to flirt aggressively. I played along despite my lack of interest. As these things seem to go, as I became more and more drunk, and less and less able to take care of myself, Calvin became more and more interested in me. He started grinding up on me in the middle of the bar, and at one point grabbed my hand and put it on his dick. I just giggled. And probably hiccuped.

After several minutes of this, I began to come to my senses. I looked around for my friend Hugh Lewicki to rescue me. Hugh and I made the ‘I have to get out of here eye contact’ and he approached us casually. At this point, I was holding my license, credit card and lip gloss in a goodie bag I had been given at the beginning of the party. My purse was in the car. Calvin was annoying by the interruption, and whispered into my ear to meet him in his car for some good old fashioned oral sex. I assumed I would be on the giving end.

I intentionally missed that rendezvous and went home, where I laughed about it and burned three bags of popcorn while I tried to tell my roommate what had happened. It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized Calvin had taken my goodie bag out to his car with him. It also wasn’t until the next morning that Hugh decided to tell me that Calvin was the son of a major VIP at work. I never got any of my credentials back, nor did Calvin get back his dignity.

peter rice (updated)

14 Jul

Had a little more to add at the bottom of Peter Rice’s story.

melinda bradley

13 Jul

When I got my first job in the industry I am now in, I interviewed on Friday and was to start working on Monday. This caused a bit of a problem with my current job as a waitress at ******. Although I hated it with a burning fiery passion unlike anything I’d felt or have felt since, I had been a loyal employee there for over five years and didn’t want to screw them over. But, oh I hated it.

I put in my two weeks and gave away as many shifts as I could, but I remember having to come in for a couple evening shifts after I finished up on ***********.  I was exhausted and miserable. When my two weeks were finally up, I experienced my first real weekend since I was a sophomore in high school.  It also happened to be Cinco De Mayo.

A recently ex-co-worker, Melinda Bradley, and I decided to drive up to Santa Barbara and drink some wine and walk around. We didn’t really have a game plan, so we found ourselves stopping at the side of the road a lot whenever we found something interesting.

After a full day of mini-excursions, we were heading back home when Melinda saw this long, really steep road with an interesting sounding name. We turned onto it and began the ascent. We were immediately intrigued when at least two dozen antique cars passed us coming from the other direction. The road kept going, climbing higher and higher, and yet we were unable to find the source of the antique car parade. Eventually, Melinda looks over at me, her eyes a little wild with fear and says, “I have to poop.”

At this point we have been on this road for about ten minutes. Possibly fifteen. Before that, we had been on a long winding highway in the middle of nowhere. We were at the very least thirty minutes from anywhere with a toilet. I laughed. A lot.

But Melinda was not laughing. “Pull over,” she said. I did as I was told and turned the car off as Melinda frantically searched my back seat. She asked me if I have any paper towels or fast food napkins, which I, having anticipated our road trip, had just thrown away that morning. As Melinda’s desperation became more and more apparent, I offered her the only thing I had.

“Your (insert old place of employment here) apron?” Melinda asked, laughing despite her predicament.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I was never very good at metaphors anyway…”

Melinda scurried into the woods, and I stood guard at the edge of the road.  After a while, I called to her to see if she was okay.  She answered, sounding a little out of breath, “Yeah… just… give me a minute.”

As I stood by the side of the road, rocking back and forth on my heels, a lone biker rode down the road. Now let me remind you that this was a very steep road. And he was riding down. He should have just sped by, but this dude must have been riding his brakes because he was moving at a snail’s pace.  As he approached, he called out to me, “Everything alright, miss?”

“Yep,” I said, smothering a laugh. “Just enjoying this beautiful day.”

From behind me in the woods, Melinda called out, “What?”

“Do you need help with anything?” the man asked, seeming very concerned.

“Yep, I’m fine, thanks.”

“Your car working?”

“Yes, sir.”

I was tempted to ask him if his bike is working, but I fought the urge. The man finally pedaled away, apparently unconvinced that I wasn’t in some sort of distress. Shortly after, Melinda emerged from the woods, a relieved smile on her face, and my soiled ******* apron crumpled in her hands.

She looked at me, almost embarrassed, “What should I do with this…?”

I informed her that the apron was not coming into the car with us, so she left it by the side of the road, a little gift for our cyclist on his return trip. Now Melinda and I are friends IRL, so you may think it’s odd that I’ve included her in this blog, but I am afraid that after she reads this, we no longer will be. 🙂

matthew fiske and allie oates

11 Jul

So I’m kind of a sad excuse for a human being. I don’t get crushes a lot (like almost never), but when I do, hold on to your fucking hat, I’m a psycho. Last year, I had my first crush in years on this guy named Matthew Fiske. I met him through work, but we didn’t work together or anything. I had seen him a couple times, with no tingly feelings down there, but the second we were actually introduced and shook hands (touched) I was like, Holy shit, I’m in love!

I immediately began circling, looking for a weakness that would allow me to catch my prey off guard. I’ve grown up a lot since high school, so I didn’t start any secret Matthew Sororities or get my dad to drive by his house at night or create any screen names in his honor. But I did cyberstalk him, and all but harass him with text messages trying to get him to be my boyfriend. He seemed like a good sport for a while, very eager to please, which is what I like, but with virtually no follow-through. We hung out a couple times in a group, but I could never get him naked… errr, I mean alone.

Finally, I was presented with the perfect opportunity. My office was having a holiday party, and I needed a date. Matthew had already made plans, but said if I didn’t mind him skipping out early, we could go together. I agreed, he picked me up, we had a nice little car ride there, in which we fell deep deep in love, and then we got to the party where he was completely charming to everyone we met and we continued falling deep deep in love.

Now let me rewind a little. I have a bit of a reputation at these work parties. I usually get balls-to-the-wall drunk. I have a ridiculous story from every one of these parties: Crying on the Floor Night, Credit Card Stolen By Boss’ Son Who Spent the Night in his Car Waiting For Me to Come Blow Him Night, Wallet Stolen/Almost Arrested/Driven Home by Aunt of Home-wrecking Co-worker Night, Friend Almost Get’s DUI but I Save Her By Being her Designated Decoy Night… yes the list goes on and on. But I had vowed that on this particular night, I would save all craziness until after Matthew left. I actually kept my word.

At some point in the night, we got on the topic of crushes. He brought it up. He told me that it makes life more interesting to always have a secret crush. I thought this was a silly and childish thing to say, but I went along with it, nodded, and smiled demurely. He said, “I have a secret crush.” I said, “Me too.” But in my head, I was like, Dude, where is this going?

I walked him to the door when it was time for him to leave, and he gave me a friendly hug, but whispered in my ear, “Secret crush.” And then he was gone, leaving me wondering WHAT THE FUCK?

So I’m convinced that he’s in love with me, though the weirdness of his behavior had not escaped me. I run back into the party, stopping at the bar to ensure I’m double-fisting for the remainder of the night to make up for lost time, and immediately begin questioning everyone I run into (including my superiors) about Matthew. He said, secret crush? That means me, right? He had his arm around my shoulders, not around my waist, thats a bad sign right? He said he had fun, not a good time. Which is better? You saw how he was acting, do you think he likes me? Like I said, I’m a freak. Everyone was trying to get away from me after that so I did the only thing I knew to do. I started massaging the butt of a stranger playing pool. I punched (and continued to threaten) a co-worker’s large, black husband. I inserted myself into every photo being taken. I spilled a drink on our highest profile “client” (so high-profile, that I am certain, you reader, have heard of him). And then I passed out at the bar.

Eventually the bouncer woke me up and put me in a cab. The cab driver and I became great friends until we got to my front door and he asked me if he could come upstairs with me. I told him that usually I would accept his offer (in exchange for free cabfare of course), but on this night I was Matthew Fiske’s secret crush, and I couldn’t taint this beautiful night with a one-night stand. Once upstairs, I walked out on my balcony. It was a chilly LA night, and I sighed with drunken contentment as I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and looked out over the twinkling lights of the valley. That’s funny, I thought. Why are my car keys in my coat pocket? I then pulled out someone else’s car keys from my coat. As I was wondering how the keys got there, I looked down at the sleeve of my coat and realize that my brand new, bright blue coat had faded into a dull charcoal color. I was initially pissed until I realized what you all have already realized: I was wearing someone else’s coat. With someone else’s car keys. Meaning someone couldn’t get home.

I immediately called the bar and tried to drunkenly explain what had happened. They told me to call back tomorrow. I was like, “No, no, no, you don’t understand. Someone can’t get home.” They wouldn’t even take my number. My FB status that night was something about wearing someone else’s coat, and one of my friends/co-workers immediately responded that it was this girl Allie Oates‘s coat. That apparently she had been panicked, behind me at the bar WHILE I WAS SLEEPING, asking the bartender if anyone had seen her coat. It’s all sorta beautifully cinematic if you think about it. Anyway, so I got Allie her coat the next day, she was such a good sport about it, we even became friends on Facebook after that.

At work on Monday, everyone came prepared to make fun of me again. It wasn’t until about halfway through the day though, that a mutual friend of mine and Matthew’s shows me that at some point between Matthew leaving the party and me passing out at the bar, I had drunken Facebooked him, writing on his wall, “You’re my secret crush!!!!!”

We didn’t speak for six months. Apparently, I wasn’t his.

jamie starke

10 Jul

When I was twelve, my life revolved around the internet. My brother and I made up a schedule in two-hour blocks, stating who was allowed on the computer at what times. We used our computer time as bargaining tools. What? You wan’t me to do your chores this week? I want FOUR hours Sunday night, and your mid-Saturday afternoon slot. It was pretty ridiculous. His hours revolved around different role-playing games, mine revolved around my Sweet Valley High club, and the creation of my web site.

It was in my time spent in The Unicorn Club, that I met Jamie Starke. There is some debate now, as to how our “friendship” first came about. We fought over the vice-presidency of the club, which had been mine until I was grounded from the computer for several weeks (probably as a result of the pole dancing nurse debacle), and upon my return the club was to vote on whether I would be reinstated or if whoever had taken my place would stay in power. Jamie was for the latter, I called her a ten cent whore, blah blah blah, we ended up becoming pen pals.

Jamie lived three thousand miles away, but we became as close as two people that live that far apart could be. She was engrossed in all aspects of my life, she knew several of my friends, and was one of the only people who ever knew about the whole Ryan thing while it was happening. We met in person for the first time my freshman year in college when she decided to come visit me for her Spring Break.

I immediately discovered that she was kind of weird. The kind of weird you would never realize online, but is completely obvious in person. There’s no way to really explain it, besides to say that she was simply socially awkward. We still had fun, I mean, I get it. Not everyone can be as cool as me. No reason to punish them for that.

After I graduated college, I ended up moving to the same city that Jamie was from, not because she lived there or anything, but because it’s a big city that a lot of people move to when they come from podunk towns like mine. Okay, okay, we’re talking about Los Angeles here. So I crashed on her couch for two weeks while I looked for my own place. Her weirdness became more and more obvious, but I really hit it off with both of her roommates.

After I had settled into my life in LA, I spent most of my free time hanging out with Jamie and her roommate Alexandra Doolittle (who I let choose her own fake name– big mistake). One night, the three of us drove to a bar in their neighborhood. Jamie and I got in an argument in the car, and it continued into the bar. Once inside, she just sulked, arms crossed, not speaking to anyone. This is typical Jamie behavior. We walked to another bar nearby, where Jamie proceeded to loosen up a little, obviously a direct correlation to the amount of alcohol she was consuming. It was there that she started to tell me how unhappy she was all the time. I told her that she should probably talk to someone professionally, she agreed, and then decided that she wanted to go home. It was still early, so Alexandra and I decided that we would stay and just walk home. Jamie left and we enjoyed the rest of our evening.

I got pretty hammered. Alexandra and I walked back to her apartment (singing Bon Jovi the entire way), with the agreement that I would sleep on her couch that night, as there was no reason for me to be driving. However, when we got to her apartment, Jamie had fallen asleep on the couch. Alexandra told me to just go up to Jamie’s “room” which was a bed in a loft up a spiral staircase in their living room. I went over to Jamie, told her quietly what I was going to do in case she was kinda awake. I got no response for her so I went up the stairs to her room.

The following events are really fucking creepy, so if you have small children, they should leave the room now.

The moment I sit down on her bed, Jamie is at the top of the staircase, staring at me. She musta climbed those stairs so quickly all stealthily. She grumbled, “Hmmmph!” and then stomps down the stairs and goes back to the couch. I followed her and said, “Jamie, take your bed. I thought you were asleep.” No response. Now, I’m pissed, and I’m drunk, and I have no patience for drama queens (unless it’s me). So I said, “Fine, I’m leaving.”

Alexandra ended up chasing me down the hallway in her underwear, and told me to just sleep with her in her room. So I got in bed, and Alexandra was at the foot of the bed fiddling with the DVD player and suddenly Jamie ran into the room, tears streaming down her face, and she got right up in Alexandra’s junk shaking her finger at her and screamed, “You’re a whore! You’re a fucking whore!” Alexandra looked up at Jamie, her face completely calm, and said, “Okay, Jamie. Go to bed, we’ll talk about this in the morning.” Jamie retaliated with, “Stop being so fucking condescending, you’re a fucking whore!!!!!” I was aghast. Here Jamie was, flipping the fuck out like nothing I’ve ever seen, and Alexandra was acting like they were discussing which of them were driving to church in the morning.

Alexandra finally pushed Jamie out of the room, but we could hear her sobbing for a long time in the living room. I gave Alexandra my classic, “What the fuck?” face and she proceeded to tell me that this shit with Jamie happened all the time. Like monthly. After about a half hour of sobbing, Alexandra finally banged on the wall and told her to cry into her pillow so the rest of the apartment could sleep. Her response was a loud crash coming from the living room.

I got up to investigate. The living room was dark and quiet. Jamie was laying down on the couch on her stomach, her face shoved into a pillow, arms at her side, like a fucking freak. There is a glass on the floor which it appeared she had thrown at the TV or the entertainment center or something. I picked it up, put it on the coffee table and said, “Please keep it down, Jamie. And try not to break anything.” I walked the thirteen or so steps to Alexandra’s door, and as I turn around to shut it behind me, JAMIE IS STANDING RIGHT THERE IN THE DOORWAY LIKE IN A FRIGGIN’ HORROR MOVIE. I am so startled and freaked out, that I just continued shutting the door, right in her face. Jamie started sobbing again. I could hear her lean against the door, and slide down to a sitting position dramatically shaking and sobbing. She called out to me, “Please don’t be mad at me. Please. Please don’t be mad at me.” The night went on like this.

The next morning, I got the hell out of there without seeing her. We had been friends on Facebook from college, but both of us had abandoned our FB accounts for Myspace as it was more popular at the time. She messaged me that day on Myspace apologizing for the night. I replied that she had freaked me out and that I didn’t think we should continue being friends until she’d talked to someone. She begged me to reconsider. Eventually, I deleted her from my Myspace friends. Now though, Facebook has made its return and I feel like it would be shitty to delete her now, more than four years later. But she still does fucking psychotic things, like show up at places where my status says I am. Or sometimes when I see her at Alexandra’s parties, she knows more details about what is going on in my life than most of my friends.

In fact, if I ever wind up mysteriously dead, I hope someone will read this blog, and look into Jamie’s alibi.

ryan frost

8 Jul

Ok, now we’re gonna switch things up a little bit. The last few Facebook friends have been people who I think are assholes or who did something really ridiculous to me.

Ryan Frost, however was my bad.

First of all, the last name isn’t a coincidence, Ryan is Jacob’s brother. His twin brother. But this story is a prequel to that entire relationship.

I’m going to try to make this as uncomplicated as possible. The summer before my freshman year of high school, I attended summer school to get some crappy classes out of the way. Mostly, I didn’t want to have to dress out every day during the regular school year, so I took the required P.E. classes. It was here that I met Jacob and Ryan. They were a year older than I was, and dangerous. Not really, they were just a year older. I immediately took a liking to Jacob, as he was kinda a prick, and I’m really into that.

Now it is important to note that at this point, my best friend had just moved halfway around the world, so I was entering high school virtually friendless. Jacob and Ryan had quite the fan base, as they were more hot than not, and well… they were twins. When my crush on Jacob became obvious to my competition, they befriended me. They being Becky Kaminsky, Rebecca Knoll and Glenda Shedd. They were Jacob and Ryan’s age and had been classmates of theirs all through elementary and middle school. They taught me everything I know.

This was the birth of my stalking prowess. I learned their favorite foods, their favorite colors, their class schedule, their family history, where they lived, their phone number, how many times they masturbated a day (and when), their bus number, their locker combinations. I knew them better than I’ve ever known anyone that I’d spoken less than twenty words to in my entire life. Looking back, if I were them, I woulda been scared out of my fucking mind, but at the time, we thought we were being silly and Jacob especially always seemed amused.

I mentioned before that I was in the habit of making up fake names online and talking to people. One Thanksgiving, I was in an Albuquerque* chat room, claiming to be Ashley Gallagher who had just moved there from Camp Hill, Pennsylvania (yes, I put a lot of thought into my backstory). This boy started IMing me, we discovered that we both went to the same high school, and we kinda just hit it off. This was back when I was connected to the internet via a dial-up modem. This boy sent me his picture, and it started slowly appearing on the screen, centimeter by centimeter. Seconds after he had signed off, the image completed downloading, and it’s none other than Ryan Frost. And yes, I could tell the difference. Because I was am fucking crazy.

The mature thing to do at this point, would be to never use that alias/screen name again and move on with my life. But at the time I felt like it was fate. I had been given this golden ticket to insight on my boys. I would be Becky, Rebecca and Glenda’s hero. However, that’s not exactly how it went down. Ryan and I chatted every night for hours, and I never told my friends. I was always actually a pretty square girl, and lying to someone I actually knew really made me hate myself. Not only because we shared a lot of personal stuff, but because I could feel myself falling for him, and I was pretty sure he felt the same way. We arranged to meet several times. Every time, I watched him wait for me, and I always stood him up. It was really pretty fucked up, but like Jake Gyllenhaal, I had no idea how to quit him. This went on for about two months. And then my conscience got the best of me. Before we could have any sort of You’ve Got Mail moment (him, me, my dog, in a garden, Somewhere Over the Rainbow…), I deleted the screen name and moved on with my life.

But it haunted me. Mostly because I was left with that, ‘What if?’ I wondered if I had come clean, told him who I was, if he would still want to be with me. Turns out that answer was no. Toward the end of the school year, he just straight up asked me if it had been me, I admitted to it, and that was that.

Jacob and I became friends after that. Ryan and I never did.

I mean we never did in real life. Obviously we are on Facebook. This story actually really depresses me. Thanks a lot.

*I made up Albuquerque. Or did I…?

peter rice

8 Jul

One Spring Break, my friend Natalie Bank, invited me at the last minute to go to Daytona Beach with her and her boyfriend, Peter Rice. They had been together on and off and I kinda hated him. At least, I’m pretty sure I already hated him at this point. Regardless, by the end of the trip, I really hated him.

Because I was a last minute addition to this trip, I didn’t really have a place to stay. Natalie and Peter were sharing a room with Peter’s friend Andrew Calton, and Andrew’s new girlfriend, Jenny Grizzle, who I will have a great story about later. I ended up sleeping on the floor in the hallway leading to the bathroom of their tiny hotel room. It was terrific.

Natalie and I were in the height of our awesomeness: we were twenty and hot and at the beach. Life doesn’t really get any better than that. We also had a 2-gallon container of vodka cranberry, light on the cranberry. Natalie and I really did some damage on that jug o’ fun, and then went back to the hotel for some good old fashioned middle of the day napping.

A much more innocent version of what happened...

Peter, Natalie and I laid down on the bed, laughing and reminiscing about the morning’s debaucheries. After a while, in an awkward sequence of events that will forever be hazy either because of all the alcohol or because I’d like to forget it, I tumbled off the bed, not because I was drunk, but because I was pushed. As I start to get up, I hear Peter tell Natalie he will give her anything she wants. She tells him all she wants is some pork fried rice. After that trip, pork fried rice became our universal code for sex, as that is what Natalie and Peter started doing. With me staring at them less than three feet away. It was very uncomfortable.

After they were done, they both swore they thought I was asleep, even though we’d been talking moments before I was evicted from the bed. I guess we must have engaged in some post-coital vodka cran, because Peter continued to get drunker and drunker and drunker. We had never gotten along, we both hated each other – and I guess at this point Peter decided that we should be closer. He decided the best way to do this, was to try to get his dick in my mouth.

This story is all sorts of fucked up. I honestly, don’t know what prompted it, or how long it went on, but I remember with horror, Peter chasing me around that hotel room naked, trying to pin me down. He thought it was funny. I’m pretty sure Natalie told him to leave me alone, but he wouldn’t listen. I don’t know what horrified me more: having a flaccid penis in my face, or knowing that I had just seen said flaccid penis inside my friend.

It’s hard to say no to a friend request of someone who’s ball sack you’ve stared at while he sat on your arms. Yes, that’s right guys. In addition to being hand raped, I’ve come inches from being orally raped too. Does this shit happen to anyone else?

Peter Rice has just informed me that he would like everyone to know that on this specific occasion, he also vomited in the Atlantic Ocean and answered the door buck naked. So, there were other casualties that day besides me. And we also worked past our differences, and I adore him now. I left that part off the first entry.