Friday, April 1, 2011


The human mind is incredible when it comes to coping with trauma. Often, it suppresses the truly damaging memories, like walking in on your parents having sex for the third time in the same week.

luckily my parents hate each other so this has never been a real problem for me
A few of my own semi-suppressed memories have been popping up lately, probably because I've been bored enough to warrant masochism due to lack of social activity. One recollection in particular stands out among the other cringe-worthy sequences, and lucky for the 3 people who read this blog you will soon be able to laugh aloud at the pain of my teenage years much like the assholes who made fun of me in middle school. and high school. and also a little in college.

In my high school we had mandatory drama courses.  Our very cool drama teacher seemed to offset the inherent dread felt by everyone but myself and a few other attention seeking douches who actually liked the class.  One of our assignments was to prepare and act out a monologue.  Simple, straightforward, should've picked something from the Aristocats as even that would've been less embarrassing than what I chose.

everybody wants to be a cat, especially furries
I, the uncool nerd from the very start, decided to perform something I'd written myself. Surely this would set me apart from my other classmates! Being talented beyond my years would give me the popularity I craved, the popularity that kids who watched MTV possessed. Truth be told, that kind of talent probably would've earned me a small fan-base from some fellow losers, but the problem was that I didn't have much to begin with.

The day of our performances is a day that lives in infamy (in my mind alone). I don't even know what triggered the memory to float back into my consciousness but here it is in all its secondhand embarrassment.  I was wearing a gigantic mint-green fleece sweater from Lands End, which somehow clung to every roll of fat on my teen-aged body. I paired this beauty with a pair of exaggerated flared jeans from Old Navy.  I looked like the Michelin man doused in mint toothpaste trapped in the 70s. I also had band aids covering the tips of every one of my fingers, but that is an entirely more disturbing story for a more troubling blog post at a more desperate time.

As soon as my name was called I hobbled up to the stage and tried to jump up like all the cool kids did, but failed and simply rolled up onto it, as I could find no better way of getting up there. Like taking the stairs.

I don't remember much of the composition but I do remember the last line, "...and I woke up [dramatic pause] to my nightmare." I was supremely proud of this shocking, twist ending and thought of myself as a modern day Edgar Allan Poe: so creative, so haunting, so pale.

Actually, I do remember the gist of what I wrote which is this: the first person narrator was abducted and tortured by strange creatures with red glowing eyes. At some point s/he blacked out (probably due to the mass amounts of specified torture) and woke up, relieved it had all been a dream! A nightmare! but no, in an instant I M. Night Shyamaland everyone's asses and had a super awesome twist ending: It was true!! It was all so painful and real!! and the pain of my performance was very real, too.

Halfway through my monologue, the Class Douche's phone went off. I know he did this on purpose to torture me. Not only was I the new girl, I was the weird girl obsessed with her cats. I soldiered through his customized ringtone and finished to dead silence...Except for my teacher, who later asked me if I'd ever considered a career in writing (he was later fired for abusing drugs).

the cool teacher isn't always so cool. case in point: glee
I knew it was all over. I would forever be the weirdo with the bandaged fingers and the creepy monologue and the sick cat. I never wore that fleece sweater again. I stopped trying to be cool (kept on wishing) and I found out who my friends were pretty quick (fellow losers - a blessing in disguise).

but I did keep writing. I even went on to get a degree in writing, and a year later I work in retail part time and live at home with my parents. Then this long forgotten memory emerged, and I woke up to my nightmare.