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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.

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…?

jacob julie frost

7 Jul

I had a pretty typical high school experience. I wasn’t popular, but I wasn’t socially crippled either. If I leaned either way, it was definitely toward the latter. I did my own thing, never really cared what anyone thought of me, had a small group of friends I adored and generally flew just under the radar (with a few misguided blips). My junior year, like most silly girls, I fell in love with a boy. Mostly, I hate that this happened. At the time, it was great, because he loved me back, but as an adult who never feels anything for anyone, it seems like a lot of wasted emotion on someone who ultimately didn’t deserve it. I’m not bitter or anything.

The problem with this specific boy (his name was Jacob Frost) is that before we started dating, he was my best friend. And in fact, given that we had a fairly successful relationship, he continued to be my best friend until we broke up. Right around the time I graduated high school, we began fighting. And beating each other. Love taps, as I like to call them. About a month into my freshman year of college, we called it quits, a decision we claimed was mutual, but really was nothing of the sort. The short story is… that he had stopped caring months before, and I finally stopped letting him get away with it. Also, he was getting blow jobs from my friend’s roommate… That played a little part in it as well. I’m not bitter or anything.

Jacob desperately wanted to stay friends. Like me, our constant togetherness and co-dependence over the past two years had separated us from all our other friends. Unlike me, he was living at home with his mother and working at the local Applebees (which had just opened, good for him!), while I was away at college with lots of access to new and interesting people. He called me constantly, showed up in town unannounced several times (which all made sense when I found out what was going on over in my friend’s dorm room), and generally pathetically tried to keep some remnant of our relationship alive. I say that like I was all tough and trying to teach him a lesson, but really I was too heartbroken and devastated that he didn’t want to be with me anymore to even talk to him. Eventually he stopped trying.

It took me a pretty unhealthy amount of time to get over that one. Like really unhealthy. Like I called him yesterday and hung up when he answered.

But really. Late in my sophomore year of college, we started talking again. Never in person; it was always on AIM or every so often over the phone. I had transferred to a school even further away, and we made plans to see each other the next time I was in town.  Except that never happened. Within two months, some girl he worked with ended up with child. A year later, Jacob was married with two children (how did that happen? oh, turns out Julie, his baby mama, was already some other guy’s baby mama). I’m not bitter or anything.

So yeah. I was pretty disgusted with him, he stopped talking to me, and the final nail in the coffin of our friendship was firmly intact. Several years later, when I no longer had an emotional reaction whenever I heard his name, he showed up on Facebook. In my opinion, people like Jacob are the reason why Facebook should be awesome. He is someone I was once really close with, but no longer have access to. Voila, Facebook. We friended each other (not even sure who initiated), we exchange a couple bland messages, and that’s it.

One day, I was feeling particularly nostalgic, and he showed up on FB chat so I decided to IM him. Suddenly I realized that I was talking to Julie, and bitch is pisssssssed that I’m talking to her husband. Whatever. A few months later, Jacob’s username was changed to Jacob Julie Frost. A few months after that, the profile picture changed to one of Julie. I’ve always been pretty unhealthily anti-marriage because I’m terrified of losing my own identity. Case in point. Jacob can’t even have his own fucking Facebook account. Somehow, I was force-fed a Facebook friendship with my first love’s wife, someone I despise, despite any niceties I may fake whenever I see her.  Oh! And she’s constantly playing Farmville. And Frontierville. And Zoo World. I don’t care if you need a fucking hammer or your crops dusted or whatever. STFU! But I’m not bitter or anything.

bulldog

28 Jun

I grew up in a really small, really redneck town. The year after I graduated high school, our first sit-down chain restaurant opened: an Applebees. It quickly became the hippest local hangout (weekly karaoke, nightly fistfights, and hourly drink specials). The Wednesdays before Thanksgiving and Christmas were always particularly big nights at Applebees, serving as accidental class reunions as everyone flocks back into town to see their families (and then realizing that they needed to go get drunk if they were actually going to spend that much time with them). The Wednesday before the Christmas my junior year in college stands out in my mind as all kinds of crazy.

It all started out pretty normally. I was in a booth with my two best friends, and James Gallagher, my gay friend I’d had since sixth grade. James and I convinced each other that it would be simply hilarious if we aggressively french kissed, just for laughs. Then I ran into a guy whose name I don’t even have to change for you because I only know him as Bulldog. Like literally, that’s what people call him. Perhaps I should change it to Cletus or Bobcat, but nothing else really says Bulldog like Bulldog.

I had met Bulldog a few weeks earlier at a much tamer Applebees evening. I had convinced him that my name was Natasha, and I was a foreign exchange student from Russia. This proves that Bulldog is an idiot. I didn’t even try to fake an accent or anything. Plus I’m pretty sure the people he was with vaguely recognized me from high school, but whatever.

So on the crazy night in question, Bulldog and his friend, Lee Burges (who we definitely went to school with), invited us to a party at Lee’s house because his parents were out of town. We accepted a ride there with Lee because we were way too drunk to drive. Once at the party, Bulldog immediately invited me to join him in Lee’s parents’ bedroom, a scenario just so darn sexy, I couldn’t resist. We were making out pretty disgustingly, and I’m pretty sure Bulldog thought he was going to get laid. Before I had the chance to tell him he was barking up the wrong tree (get it?), the door to the bedroom opened and in my drunkeness, I freaked the fuck out. My shirt was unbuttoned/almost off, and instead of just closing it, I pushed Bulldog off of me, jumped to my feet, and bolted toward the master bath. Unfortunately, the room was dark and I misestimated where the hallway was and ended up running face first into the corner of the wall. It literally knocked me on my ass. Turns out, the person who opened the door had just been my friend Hollie Rice, coming to check on me. Bulldog and Hollie help me redress and then carried/dragged me to the living room couch. Lee got me a raw steak to put on the shiner that was quickly forming on my face, and I spent the rest of the party nursing my wounds.

The next morning, Bulldog gave us a ride back to the Applebees parking lot, and as I’m getting out of the front seat of his car, he leans over and looks me in the eyes (one good, one black) and says, “I had a really great time last night, Natasha.” Hollie started snorting from the backseat. After Bulldog drove away, Hollie erupted into laughter and said, “What a night! But at least he remembered your fake name the next morning!”

The worst part of this entire incident is that it all went down just a few days before Christmas. So in all the holiday pictures that year, I have this awful black eye. Everyone wanted to know how I’d gotten it, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell my grandmother about my scandalous night with Bulldog.

To be completely honest, I don’t know why Bulldog friend requested me over six years later. He must have found me because we have so many mutual friends, but I doubt he even realizes that the person he found on Facebook is his long lost klutzy foreign love, Natasha.