I was one of the five nominees in my graduating class to be nominated as “Class Individualist”. The Individualists years prior were artsy students…or perceived to be artsy.
Apparently people think I’m artsy.
“Taking AP art?” she asked me.
“No. I’ve never even taken an art class here.”
She cocked her head, her eyes narrowing at me. “Really? I thought you have. You always look so artsy.”
“Like your clothes. You look artsy.”
“So you don’t like art?”
I shook my head. “But I write. That’s creative.”
She shrugged her shoulders and looked to the other side of the hall.
Evidently she didn’t favor my response. Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Jane Austen and Gertrude Stein were not creative at all.
The art teacher even assumed that I was taking art classes…but if I took art I would have been in his class. Kinda goes to show you that people judge you based on what you wear and who you hang out with. I wouldn’t call my clothes “artsy” though….I would called them confused. Day 1: 70’s-style flare jeans with an Italian leather jacket from the 80’s Day 2: flapper dress inspired by the 20’s. And if I’m not wearing something that has a period, then it’s a black T shirt and jeans. Criminals wear this all the time.
I just realized that every single one of the people I associate with takes art though. So by association, I must also take art.
Anyway, I suspect that because of the above reasons I was nominated as Class Individualist. Maybe also because I’m a loner.
I did not win Class Individualist though. I didn’t win anything. I didn’t even get to eat dinner before the lame school dance where the winners were named. I was a hungry loser.
But I wasn’t alone at the lame school dance at least. I was with some people I talk to on occasion. They’re nice enough.
I did one girl’s makeup and chatted about The Double BFF’s: Boys, Booze, Feminism, and The Future. Although a drink would have been nice for the rather intense discussion, we couldn’t drink because we had to DL: Drive and Live.
Then we went to the lame school dance and I took photos the entire night for Yearbook and boogied with random people in between. Just when my feet couldn’t get any more numb we left and went to my job to eat because one of the girl’s boyfriend works there as well and she wanted to see him.
I drove my…crush, I guess…home.
I hate that word. Crush. It’s so negative. It’s basically promising that the person you like is going to crush your heart and you will never be the same again. Crush also just sounds dumb.
I drove my beloved home.
That’s a little better although it sounds a bit too strong of a word….fuck it.
Afterwards I went home, finally ate, and while I was masturbating to the photo I secretly took of my beloved freaking God showed up and told me that homosexuality and masturbating is sinful.
I asked if it would be better if He joined me because the Raging Boner He had underneath His robe suggested that He was a Dude and then it would be okay and then I wouldn’t have to masturbate.
God then told me I am a very naughty, dirty girl and with His Magical Powers He had me spread eagle on my bed and I couldn’t move and then He walked over to me grinning evilly and rubbing His Godly Giant Cock and holding a gag in the other hand and I was like “Oh shit! He’s into BDSM!” and then He grabbed me by my hair and I screamed in pain and terror I mean He has supernatural strength and then just as the gag was being shoved into my mouth-
I woke up crying and sweating.
Other than that nightmare, my Friday night was good.
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