My Facebook Diary pg.10

Just to let you know, the names of all in My Facebook Diary have been changed so as not to hurt anyone.

There's one person I hope I don't find on Facebook any time soon.  Or maybe I need to bury the hatchet. But where?

In elementary school I was a pretty happy kid. I think I was well liked. I had a different best friend every year. Everybody did. It depended on who was in your class. There was no point having a best friend if she wasn't in your class. A best friend always played with you at recess, so you were never alone. A best friend always picked you first in any game, so you never had to stand there last. A best friend never threw the Dodge Ball at you, even if you lumbered slowly in front of her, she'd pretend to be after someone else. So you had to wait to see who was in your class before choosing your best friend. I don't remember choosing, actually. It was sort of up to chemistry. Whoever laughed at one of your jokes, or smiled at you when you walked into the room, that's who was your best friend for that year. No wonder we later made what seemed to be totally random choices in love. After driving for almost an hour once again down some long,dusty road looking for the white house that's 2 doors down from "the old man who raised chickens" house, or some other vague direction my new best friend had given me to her house, my mother often asked,"Why don't you ever pick someone who rides your bus?" Silly mother.

But 7th grade came and everything changed. First things got better, then they got worse. I seemed to be well-liked enough to be asked to join a group of popular 8th graders at their table in the cafeteria. I ran for cheerleader, which was voted on by the entire student body after doing a cheer all alone as audition. I didn't get chosen, but because the principal was a relative, he let slip to my mother that I'd only lost to another girl by 4 votes. That made losing not so bad. I found out exactly how popular I was, without now having to freeze my rear end off at football games. I could sit all warmly covered up hand-in-hand with my new 8th grade boyfriend and say things like,"Why are they running that way now?" Boys loved that. Again, this explains our later behavior with men.

This was the year I also discovered I loved creative writing. Getting your essay picked to be read to the entire class was the highest honor. I remember getting my first laugh from the class when I wrote a paper about having to put up with my stupid brother. But I went too far, because I made them laugh by telling how we later found out he was slightly retarded. In the class was a girl who had just found out her stupid brother was slightly retarded. They say to write about what you know. They never said what might happen if you do.

Lurking in the sidelines of all this adulation was one Bonita Busby. Bonita did not like my new popularity. She wanted to be at that cafeteria table because her half-sister was there, and she was exceedingly jealous of the beautiful Debbie. Bonita and Debbie looked like before and after plastic surgery pictures. Bonita had flaming red hair, massive freckles, not the cute kind, and a very loud voice. She moved like a wrestler coming at you from across the mat. Debbie had strawberry blonde hair, the cute kind of freckles, just a splash across the nose, and sang like an angel. Everybody wanted to be in Debbie's circle of friends. Bonita had friends who had wisely figured out it was better to be friends with the beast than to risk angering it.

After my mistake in creative writing class, you'd think I'd have learned a basic lesson about humor: what's funny to you isn't always funny to someone else. Consider your audience. But I had not learned yet. So I wrote what I thought was a funny note to a friend about Bonita, the line escapes me now, maybe with sodium pentathol I could recall it, and, you saw this coming, didn't you? It fell into the wrong hands, specifically Bonita's.

I was in the gym locker room later that day trying to be as unnoticed as possible changing into my hideous gym uniform when in storms Bonita. The crowd of girls parted as I was sacrificed to the god of Glad It's You and Not Me and Bonita slapped my across the face with such force I almost fell down. I Immediately wet my pants and began to cry as she berated me for my audacity to speak her name. She vowed to make sure no one ever talked to me again or asked me to sit with them again, a claim she managed to carry out for the rest of 7th grade. And just like that, my popularity was gone. No more 8th grade cafeteria table, no more boyfriend, no more making anybody laugh. My mother gave me the advice she lived by: Good will always win out over bad. Silly mother.

My rage at the universe was bottomless. Like a crabby toddler, I decided that being a bad kid was better than no attention at all. I became surly, moody, disrespectful, a liar, cheater, and a thief. And open to the advances of any boy who looked my way. Again with the Life Choices. Within 3 years, I was pregnant, and on my way out of my little hometown. You could say I have Issues.

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