Monday, July 28, 2008
1. Leather Pants Guy
The leather pants are NOT what I was obsessed with. It was what was inside the pants. (I mean the PERSON, ya perv.) Punk rocker. Great 'do. Had the "I don't give a shit what anyone thinks about me because I'm the only one with the balls to try and work these leather pants and guess the fuck what I'm WORKIN' 'EM" vibe about him. Did I mention the great 'do? It was great. (Details like this are what turn me into another Norman Bates.) So all was good in the Stalking Department. (with an additional "Nice boots" the day I wore red rain boots. I've never thought the word "boots" could be so seductive. Boots...boots...boots.) UNTIL...the 'do (the great one I may have mentioned before) was gone. That's it. GONE. Gone like the fucking wind and you know what? So was the the man inside the pants. He lived for the 'do. The 'do was what gave him that vibe. Goodbye 'do, goodbye vibe. It wasn't even the 'do that got my attention, it was how confident in himself he seemed to be. I guess he thought he'd look good no matter what. Twas NOT the case. And he knew it. (I wore my red rainboots everyday The Day The 'Do Died in hopes it would cheer him up. But boots can only go so far.)
2. Clark Kent Guy
Sorry but NO, he didn't look a thing like Clark Kent. But he DID have the Clark Kent glasses and those are some sexy spectacles. I made the mistake of maaaybeeee mentioning my obsession with "Clark" to someone I DIDN'T KNOW WAS ALL BUDDY-BUDDY WITH THE GUY and so, of course, as douche bags will sometimes do, he told him. Next thing I knew, "Clark" was coming up to me asking me for hugs. I don't want to hug my Infatuates! I want to creepily stalk my Infatuates! Once I have physical contact it's all realistic and WRONG. I don't stand outside their windows at night so I can GET TO KNOW THEM FOR WHO THEY REALLY ARE. Please. They need to stay completely out of my reach at all times. That's what they're there for. When nice "Clark" asked for my digits I knew the obsession had come to an end. I was all too friendly and normal for my taste. Good thing I got back-ups.
3. The Back-Up Guy
After "Clark" tragically turned into a friend I had to find a replacement and FAST. If I didn't find one in time I'd have to go back to flirting and dating and "having a relationship" and some people don't know this but relationships? ARE FOR LOSERS. Stalking is the new snogging. Spread the word. Spread the word and get back to me with the feedback. ("No it is not, who made up THAT stupid---oh...Natasha said that? Oh well if Natasha said it then...you know, now that I think about it, it is MUCH more exhilarating to put on some Jackie O's and follow someone home than having to embrace their sweaty palm with my own sweaty palm and call it love. Natasha knows all.") Back to what I was so brilliantly enlightening you with. The Back-Up Guy. I wasn't infatuated with him at first because he was just The Hottest Guy At My School, but then I realized...he was the hottest guy at my school. This may be more of a fatal attraction type dealio, but like I said, he was The Back-Up Guy. (It ended when I actually met him and was flabbergasted to discover he was a carbon copy of an ex of mine, personality/lingo/everything- wise. I know stalking is creepy. But cloning is beyond the creep zone.)
So now you know, I am not only Natasha the Blogger, I am Natasha the Anti-Snogger! I am not going to say BEWARE! YOU COULD BE NEXT! because obviously a boy my age reading my blog everyday would have beat me to the punch there since he is the one already stalking me and my writing...but stalk on, my friend! For there are not enough of us and Great Scott! There needs to be! What a better form of flattery than to be someone's stalkee? EXACTLY! (As you can see I do not only admire stalking, I admire CAPITAL LETTERS! But that's beside the point!) For all of you out there thinking, "I'm much too above all of this stalking nonsense. It's utterly ridiculous and they should be ashamed." all I have to say to YOU is: You may be able to talk the talk, but can you stalk the stalk?
Saturday, July 26, 2008
"She need ta walk fasta! Uehh dis chick slow AS HELL!"
Me, a poor, innocent, little freshmen, being bullied just because my poor, innocent, little legs couldn't walk as fast as I needed them to go.
"Then walk around! You lazy b---"
I didn't mean to stop mid-sentence. I didn't mean to stare. I didn't mean to drop my jaw and leave it hanging open. I didn't mean to make it seem like I was going to call her a 'bitch' when really I was going to say 'bum.' I didn't mean to stutter my next few syllables.
I was just so poor and innocent and little...
"What you lookin' at bitch?"
...and scared and sorry and stuttering out of control...
...and in a state of disbelief for at that moment I was face to face, neck in neck, on the verge of getting into a gruesome brawl with...
"Say it to my face, BITCH-ASS-HO."
The Albino Rhino.
One more and make it five!
Okay Natasha, that's enough. Say you're sorry and run.
"I'm gonna kick yo lil ass, BITCH."
Or just run.
I had heard the rumors.
"Have you seen the Albino Rhino?"
"That is really mean, Jason."
"But have you seen her?"
"NO BUT I WANT TO SO BAD!"
"I saw her!"
"That's really mean, Jason."
"And she's an albino."
"OH MY GOD I HAVE TO SEE HER!"
When you're a freshmen, EVERYTHING is new and exciting. Teachers, hallways, #2 pencils, and yes, albino students. Cheers to her for going to high school. Not that albinos are too dumb to make it to high school, but high school has some of the meanest, most immature people you will ever meet. Hence her nickname. I'm sure it was one chosen out of thousands, made up by the most insecure teenagers at our school who have nothing better to do than try to be the modern Mother Goose. At least she knows she's not the only one made fun of in high school. EVERYONE gets made fun of in high school. If I had a glass, I'd raise a toast in her honor. But enough about talking about how great she is for her bravery, the girl was a BITCH. A bitch about to kick my ass.
"What you gonna say den, ho?"
First, take a deep breath. NO FIRST CLOSE YOUR GAPING JAW YOU IDIOT. Then comes the deep breath. Then..words.
Okay good enough
By choosing the "whiny-bimbo" approach, I had fooled her into thinking I was too dumb to even be worth a fight. If you ever get stuck in a rut you can't get out of (the original version of the popular slow song, but was quickly changed to "moment" to make it sound less emo), just use this method I have carefully constructed over the years. Cock your head to the side, push both of your eyebrows towards the middle of your forehead at a slightly raised angle, and speak a little like a baby and a little like a bimbo. Voila!
And that's when I speed-walked out of there. Okay, so it was more of a steady jog. Okay, so it was half steady jog, half even run. Okay okay so I sprinted my ass off HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY. Of course I went and told everyone I knew, even some people who just looked like I should know them, and of course they were all jealous. For up until then she had been only a legend, an urban myth. I, Natasha Ferrier the freshmen, had made her real. Hopefully one day she'll get over the fact that she got a real good look at the inside of my mouth for a solid 5 minutes and thank me for it.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
More Specific Confession: I was the captain of our squad.
Confession that May Anger Current Cheerleaders: Thank god those days are over.
It wasn't the cheerleading I hated. (I consider the splits to be one of my highest achievements.) It was my fellow cheerleaders who turned our cute, little middle school squad into Satan's Squad. They are the ones who made me want to shove my pom-pom down somebody's throat and my other pom-pom up somebody's ass. I cheerled for 2 years, and any cheerleading time spent OFF the football field goes under my category of Times I Wanted To Pull A Carrie. That's right. Football games? A blast! Something about touching my toes while they're in the air and spelling out words like, "W-O-O" and "H-O-O" (some people make the mistake in either spelling it out as one word: woohoo, or spelling 'hoo' like 'who?' BIG mistake. and that, my friends, is what cheerleaders are F-O-R.) really gets me going. What other time do I get to appropriately flash my undies to a crowd of parents, grandparents, little children, and boys my own age without being looked down upon? EXACTLY. What other time do I get to color-coordinate the ribbons in my hair to my underwear without it seeming odd? EXACTLY. What other time do I get to refer to my underwear as "spanky pants" without it seeming like a sexual innuendo? EXACTLY. But let's take a closer look at the times spent OFF the field, shall we?
I was in 7th grade being invited to an 8th grade sleepover. Cheerleaders only. I was stoked out of my mind. Until I actually got there.
"Flava lava mava pullava kava."
"Well, nava nava tomava flikava amava."
"Bobava blava tryflava wava quava."
This is the "language" the 8th grade girls insisted on speaking the. entire. night. They would ask us all to come sit in the living room so we could all get to know each other, and then they would start this bullshit. They made it clear that we were not supposed to be following the conversation in the least bit. They even threw out some enormous gasps during the conversational pauses so we REALLY knew what we were missing. Obviously the English language was SO 7th grade. How were we supposed to know? There was only one 8th grader who dared speak to me directly, and THAT didn't last long.
Me: What's up?
Her: I just ate an altoid.
Me: Cool. So, were you a cheerleader last year?
Her: It was cinnamon.
Me: What was cinnamon?
Her: The altoid.
Me: Oh...well that's neat. So do you play any other sports?
Her: I love cinnamon altoids.
Me: I've never had one. So what's your favorite movie?
Her: I think I'm going to go get another one.
The only other thing she talked about that night was how she could swallow her tongue, but after she showed us there was really nothing else for her to say since once you show someone your gaping mouth with your tongue stuck back in it, they really don't know what to say to you.
After waking up covered in a goop we found out was a tuna-mayonnaise-relish-hummus-syrup concoction, we were told we weren't allowed to shower, for we must report to the backyard to immediately start learning cheers.
"I will be teaching you the cheers, and my co-captain, Holly, will be monitoring you to make sure you don't screw up."
I think the question on everyone's mind was: Why was Holly holding a belt?
"This is the first move, and this is the second. Dip down like this for the third, and---"
SMACK! That's why.
"Holly, what happened?"
"Blondie here dipped the opposite way."
"Well, little girl, hopefully you won't mess up again now that you know what will happen."
For those of you who may not be following along, they WHIPPED US. I thought I was a cheerleader, not Kunta-Kentay, for bloody sake. And they say cheerleading isn't tough...
So then the next year I was the captain, and NO, I did not "carry on the tradition" that the 8th graders had told us we would do. I don't know why...I just don't have the urge to whip people...guess S&M is out of the picture. Darn. However, this also was the year the new cheerleaders would NOT be chosen based on skill, but based on grades and moral behavior. (Could they make it more obvious they think cheerleading isn't a sport? I don't see straight-A Adam making the winning touchdowns.) So surprise, surprise! Our squad sucked.
"I can't do it, I'm scared."
"Look, Millie, there's nothing to be scared of. It's just a stunt. You're safe."
"I'm too scared, I can't do it."
You're thinking I was trying to force this girl to be a flyer. You're thinking I was trying to force this girl to be thrown into the air and caught by 14-year-olds. You're thinking I was trying to force this girl to do a dangerous stunt that risks breaking her neck. Hardly.
"Millie, all I'm asking is that you try."
"I can't do it."
"Millie, all I'm asking is that you get on one knee and let Margot step onto your thigh. You won't even be off the ground."
What I wanted to say: "Walking is more dangerous than this, you idiot."
"Let me go call my mom and ask."
"Okay, go call her. We'll wait here."
What I wanted to say: "You better call 911 too because I'm about to beat you to a pulp you poor excuse of a cheerleader."
I understand if you think I'm being harsh, but cheerleading is hard-core. As I always say, If you can't roll with the big dogs, better just go walk your dog.
And Millie wasn't the worst of them. There was Opal, who stood to the side performing her version of Riverdance whenever I tried to teach a cheer. ("I had to quit Irish step-dancing because my mom said it was getting to be too dangerous," she had told me the first time I asked her what the hell she was doing when I was trying to teach a cheer. What does that even mean, "too dangerous?" What? You'll pull your groin? And what IS it with all these girls and their mommies? Does your mommy wipe your ass, too? That's what I should have said. But I had vowed to be a nice captain.) There was Autumn who cried when she couldn't get it right. (And she never did get any of them right. That's why we put her in the back behind Helga, the big one.) And speaking of Helga, she took the liberty of writing me an e-mail the day after our big pep-rally, the one where Helga dropped our flyer. How mature of her to express her feelings in an e-mail. Here is a brief summary:
You think you're so cool. It doesn't even matter that I'm jealous of you because okay, I am, and okay, I have been for a few years, but you don't have the stamina to play the Bari-sax like I do. You'll never be able to play the Bari-sax. All you know how to do is flirt with boys and cheerlead and act and write stories and be a leader. Who cares about all that when you're conceited? All you think about it yourself and how popular you are and you're lucky I'm such a dedicated cheerleader or I would just quit because I've had enough but I love cheerleading as much as I love the Bari-sax and I could never give it up. It's your fault she was dropped in that pep rally. Just hope that next time it won't be you I drop...
And YES, she put the dot-dot-dots. I'll give THAT to her, dot-dot-dots are hella intimidating, especially when they're following a THREAT TO MY LIFE. And honestly, I WILL never be able to play the Bari-sax because I didn't even know the thing existed and if that's all you got on me than good luck with your life.
Confession: I hated my squad.
More Specific Confession: I hated my squad but I loved getting that e-mail.
Confession that May Anger Current Cheerleaders: The only thing I miss are the spanky pants.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
1. I will have the ability to understand.
"When you're an adult you'll understand."
WHY is it that EVERY adult says this? As if EVERYONE goes through the EXACT same experiences when they become adults. There are some things ANYONE can understand, (for instance: why we eat and drink.) there are some things that NO ONE can understand, (for instance: why Donald Trump does his hair like that.) and there are some things that only my Great Aunt Stella can understand (for instance: why, according to her, every child at birth must be given an African doll). So basically, all the things I haven't understood in the past will magically make perfect sense to me when I turn 18. Since at 18 I will, in fact, be a legal adult. This is the day parents everywhere must think of an alternate way to tell their kids they are retards. They won't be able to say, "When you're an adult you'll understand," because I can say, "Guess I understand then! BECAUSE I'M 18, BABY! Good thing you didn't tell that to me yesterday when I was 17 because then I would have had no idea what you were talking about! But now, 24 hours later, I have the knowledge I have been missing all my life!" LOOK. I act like I don't understand you a-dults because I don't CARE about what you have to say. That way I don't have to comment, I can just say, "I don't understand" and then start talking about myself, because I'm 17 and that's all I really want to talk about.
2. I will have the ability to enter windowless buildings.
And YES, I am talking about strip clubs. I guess when we have lived a decade and four-fifths we can not only handle the maturity of becoming an adult, we can also handle the tactic of slipping some Lincolns into a gyrating thong to the adult tunes of, 'Ice Ice Baby.' I think the only reason teenagers are not allowed in strip clubs is that there would be stampedes of hormone-loaded boys running into the joints with their tongues out and their flies unzipped. People would get trampled in the mob, schools would be shut down on account of an entire GENDER of students NOT showing up, and us teenage girls would be single and fat on account of befriending Ben and Jerry to replace the boys who left us for G-strings. What 17-year-old boy is gonna go to English when he can be getting a lap dance? That is why at 18, the Forbidden Fruits are forbidden no more.
3. I will have the ability to legally light a fag.
And NO, I do not mean I can legally set a homosexual on fire. That goes under the category of Cruel and Unusual and Completely SICK AND TWISTED punishment. Things like that are NOT allowed here. Not in this place OR time period, thank you very much. I mean I can buy a pack of ciggies. No mo' bummin' a cigarette, no siree, I can now PAY ACTUAL MONEY for the smokes. WOO HOO! Honestly though I do not smoke cigarettes because someone once told me that kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray and though I have kissed a smoker and it tasted nothing like an ashtray, not that I would know what an ashtray tastes like because I don't go around licking ashtrays, but I DO go around kissing smokers and it pretty much just tastes like a mouth. (Okay, I didn't mean "I go around kissing smokers" like 'Hey! You there! Yes, you, the one smoking! Get over here, I wanna kiss ya!' I just mean it has happened. And I didn't mean 'It tastes like a mouth' like it tastes warm and wet and like teeth, I just mean it was a kiss and WHY AM I EVEN BOTHERING TO EXPLAIN MYSELF.) and therefore this means nothing to me. But I may go buy a pack for the hell of it. Why? BECAUSE I'M 18 AND I CAN.
4. I have the ability to go to jail.
Well it's about time I actually got in trouble for the drugs and alcohol I've been in complete possession of for the last 17 years of my life. No more of this ridiculous "We found your stash of coke. NO TV FOR A WEEK." or "You insist on having UN-safe sex every weekend with complete strangers. NO ALLOWANCE FOR YOU, YOUNG LADY." or "You've been shooting up again, haven't you? That's it. GO TO YOUR ROOM AND DON'T COME OUT 'TILL YOU'RE SORRY." Oh no. NOW when I get caught, I will be put with the other hookers and dealers and adult versions of those orphans in Annie who had no idea of the hard-knock life to come! Instead of sulking in my room and coming down only for dinner, I can sulk in a jail cell with the woman covered in tats eyeing me from above our springy bunk-bed. GET ME OUT OF MY ROOM AND PUT ME WITH THE DRUG ADDICTS!
5. I have the ability to vote.
But who gives a shit about that?
So bring on the strip clubs! The jail cells! The ashtray-flavored mouths! I'm ready to finally be an adult and be granted the joys in life I've been missing out on! I'm ready to be under no protection whatsoever! I'm ready to be an adult and understand everything! Legalize me, baby.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Anyone's initial reaction to this insulting remark would be something like this:
"Well at least I wasn't a slut, SLUT."
But for some reason people seem to think that this same insult can get a completely different reaction as long as the words, "No offense," are added afterwards.
"You really dressed like a slut last year. No offense."
"Oh, none taken! And you're right. Boy, did I dress like a slut!"
Some people may even give you a bit of a heads up to the offensive observation coming your way by putting the "No offense" at the beginning of the sentence.
"No offense, but..."
With these two milliseconds between the 'but' and the next few words, I mentally and emotionally prepare myself for any hurtful remark. Not only that, I think of every insult they could possibly throw at me and try to think of a way to respond to each and every one, so when really this person only intended to insult me once, they have actually insulted me a thousand times by simply saying, 'No offense,' at the start of their sentence.
"...you really dressed like a slut last year."
"Really? You think so?"
By choosing the oblivious approach, I have only put myself in the position to be insulted even more. Good going there TashMyster.
"Oh my god YEAH! You wore those fishnets, and those other fishnets with bigger nets, and then you wore corsets like every DAY, and really short skirts, and spaghetti straps..."
You would think that an article of clothing featuring the word "spaghetti" would be anything but slutty.
"...and then you had that one shirt that only covered one shoulder..."
And did you hear? They're making shirts AND dresses that don't cover EITHER of your shoulders! They're called...strapless.
"And so YEAH. You dressed like SUCH a slut. No offense."
I remember when I first heard, "No offense." I was in third grade, and my best friend told me my hair looked bad. Immediately after uttering this rude remark, she spat out, "No offense!" and smiled. It was then that I realized she really had not meant to be offensive, thus the phrase, "NO offense." It's not, "Yes! Offense!" meaning "Yes, I DID in fact just mean to offend you by saying you are fat and ugly!" because when you say someone is fat and ugly, "Yes offense" goes without saying, because no one is going to say, "You're fat and ugly. No offense." because first off fat people can be intimidating and secondly that is just really, really mean. So I then took this opportunity to let her know that her underwear always forms into a bulky mass and sticks out of the top of your jeans every time she sits down. I smiled after I admitted this long-term annoyance and said, "No offense." She smiled back and said, "None taken!" and tried her best to smooth out the bulky mass. Then she insulted me (no offense!), I insulted her (no offense!), and we kept on going until every last thing that had pissed us off was out and in the open. If "no offense" had never been said, I would have poked her in the eyeball and she would have poked me in the navel (which is surprisingly just as unpleasant when poked hard enough) and we would have never spoken again. But since we remembered to say "no offense" at the end and/or beginning of every insult (yes, you CAN do both. example: No offense, but you have big bags under your eyes NO OFFENSE. it's a double whammy.), we remained the best of buds and even fixed a few bad habits because of it. (I started to brush ALL my teeth, not just the ones people see when I smile, and she stopped dressing like her mother. She even nixed the pearls. Very thoughtful.) But that was back in third grade.
"Yeah, we were ALL talking about how you were the sluttiest looking sophomore EVER. But I mean, no offense."
"Yes I used to wear fishnets but you are still really ugly."
To assure me that I had not been replaced, and that we would all get along, and that everything would still be peaches and cream, we decided to have a sleepover. (It wasn't until afterwards that I found out it was ERIN'S idea.) Lucille somehow got invited as she always did. (Maybe that was why she followed us around and thought she was part of our group. Because we always invited her to our sleepovers. Why did we do that?) We all talked about it and we all made party plans and we all got really excited and Lucille stayed annoying throughout all this and didn't really contribute much at all besides giving us the benefit of exercise because we kept walking away from her, and I REALLY don't know WHY we EVER invited her to our sleepovers in the FIRST place. Why did we do that?
It started out like any other sleepover. Countless caffeinated beverages (no diet drinks. we were 11 and could drink whatever the hell we wanted), bowls and bowls and GIANT bowls of candy (including chocolate. we were 11 and could eat whatever the hell we wanted), homemade cookies Elle's dad had made (chocolate chip. still warm), and a boombox. (that's right, kiddies. back in MY day we didn't have iPods and iPhones and iWhateverTheyThinkUpNext. hell, we didn't even have the letter i.) We giggled for about an hour and as soon as there were signs of Winding Down, I asked everyone if they'd like to see my new dance."Yeah! Yeah! Show us and then maybe you can teach us it!"
"Okay. It's to 'He Loves U Not' by Dream."
So I put it the CD and turn my back to the audience. (Good dance numbers always start with your back to the audience.) The music comes on, and the beats are all off. Then I realize...this isn't He Loves U Not...this isn't even Dream!
"Sorry. I hate Dream."
Only a freak could hate Dream."But you see, ERIN, my dance moves are in sync with the beats to He Loves U Not. I can't do it to any other song."
"Yeah you can. You can dance to anything as long as it's music. I put it Blink-182."
"But that's not even dancing music, ERIN. It will only be 3 minutes. I'll just do my dance and then you can put in your music."
"Quit freaking out. Just do your dance and get it over with."
I never ended up doing my dance. Instead I went into the bathroom and called my dad crying asking him to come get me and take me home. He told me I was overreacting. Okay, so I was overreacting. But I had this instinct that from that point on, things were only going to get worse. And you should never ignore your instincts.
"NO YOU SHUT UP!"
"YOU WON'T LET ME TALK!"
"BECAUSE ALL YOU'RE SAYING IS 'SHUT UP!' "
"NO I'M NOT, SHUT UP!"
I understand that yelling isn't the best option, but neither is grabbing the other person's head and yanking them backwards into a half-headlock, half-strangling, half-I'M INSANE hold, like ERIN did to me while I was yelling.
"YOU WERE SCREAMING!"
"DON'T TOUCH ME!"
"NO YOU SHUT UP!"
"EVERYONE SHUT UP!"
Usually this works.
"HOW ABOUT YOU SHUT UP?!"
Not this time.
So after a bout of screaming, a broken necklace (the beaded kind. worst kind to break.), and more screaming, ERIN has the brilliant idea to have a "Share Circle."
"ERIN! What a good idea! Guys, listen to ERIN!"
"Yeah, ERIN says we should have a Share Circle!"
"Oooo ERIN! What do we do in a Share Circle?"
"You see, Zoey, we all sit in a circle and share one thing we like about all the other people in the circle."
This coming from the chick who put me in a headlock 2 minutes before.
"We'll all say one thing we like about Elle first. Natasha?"
"Your dad makes good cookies."
Okay, so I realize the Cookie-Comment was bitchy, and yeah, I thought she might cry. But I was mad and my neck was sore from that headlock 2 minutes before. And she did cry. But I didn't think she'd cry and friggin' RUN AWAY.
"Umm Mr. Pine?"
"Ahhh hello again girls! Come back for more cookies?"
Three immediate death glares all directed at me. At least I wasn't attacked from behind.
"Elle ran away."
"Yeah and we looked for her."
"But we couldn't find her."
"So we thought we'd come tell you."
"She was really upset."
Please don't say why, please don't say why, please don't say why.
"Natasha made her cry."
Okay so they didn't say WHY but I kinda meant don't mention my name at all. Do I really have to be that specific?
So Mr. Pine was kind enough to not join the herd of hyenas that were doing anything BUT laughing at me and instead took the car out to search for his daughter. He found her, brought her back, and didn't make more cookies. I wonder if she had told him. Instead we all went to her room.
"Elle, is this your diary?"
"Don't open that!"
But it was much too late.
"I am a buttcheek. I am a buttcheek. I am a buttcheek."
Pages and pages. And I was NOT the only one who started laughing.
"GIVE ME MY DIARY!"
Even ERIN was laughing.
"I AM NEVER INVITING ANY OF YOU GUYS OVER AGAIN!"
At least she wasn't gonna run away again.
"Yeah, no offense, Lucille, but you shouldn't have been invited in the first place."
Okay, so I was the bitch who said it. But did anyone get mad at me that time? NOPE. All I heard then was silence.
We all then decided it was best if we just went to bed. Of course by then it was already 7 am. So we all just lay on our backs silently. Our parents picked us up. We saw each other at school. And though we never spoke of that night, things never were the same again. (Except for Lucille's nails. They remained untrimmed.)