Okay, I'm killing time until Joann, the finance bitch, deigns to finish her fucking lunch. Here's a real (depressing) jr. high dance story. My eighth grade dance. My mother bought me a black velvet dress, which shuld be cool, right? Except it had puffy sleeves and skirt and a bow in the back and made me look like an eight year old at a funeral. Which was actually a look I went for in high school, but this was NOT sexy. It was horrible. All the othr girls were wearing really short, tight, brightly colored dresses. The principal complemented my mother when she came to pick me up on the dress. She said I wasn'r "dressed like a whore, like some people." Which was so ironic, considering the events. Me and the totally geek friends I hung with (my little proto-punklet friends wouldn't have been caught dead there. I shouldn't have been either.) were sitting in the back, inhaling helium. Anthony Weber, a huge fat fuck came up to me. He was below even my level of geekdom, but he was a good bass player (which, in 8th grade, basically meant he had one) and liked Monty Python, so I associated at times. He said he had a joint and we could smoke it outside. I looked around (insert sad, sad sight here) and went with him.
When we got outside he basically made it known that he was expecting a friendly blow-job in return for the joint. What was odd was that my first two thoughts were: "he probably doesn't even have any," and "jesus christ, he thinks I would do that for a half a joint? This dress is AWFUL!" I punched him in the stomach and ran back inside where I behaved like kid with my friends and the balloons.
Happy Ending.
Of course, I threw up when I got home.
posted by Holly at 1:42 PM link/comments
