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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, candytoes.
Wound Up Roundup 06-Feb-2005 11.25 a.m.
I am pretty sure we're going to buy a Playstation 2. Apparently I'm planning to never again leave the house. But you know, when I do get out, I find I'm not missing much. Oh, sure, there's the general rudeness, the indifference, the complacency; but if I feel I'm missing out on that stuff I can always just switch on the television and watch some of the crap being offered on a daily basis, and then I'll feel all snug and cozy in the world again. A part of it all, like.
Of course, it's not all like that. In fact, just the other day when I was renting movies, I encountered a vibrant, lively, positive-minded fellow whose peppy "How aaarrre you this evening?" nearly knocked me out of my Ugh Boots. He was happy to the point of having fairies pop out of his ears, no kidding. I asked him in return how he was doing.
"It's just been so great tonight! Everyone has come in with the best attitude. Really, it's been so awesome. So awesome. I was feeling kind of down earlier and one of our regular customers came in—she's so great—and opened up her purse and said, 'Take your pick—I've got tequila, Swiss chocolate...'" and he revealed the chocolate medallions, tearing away the paper to offer me a piece. "You have to try one—delicious!" So, of course, I took one and popped it in my mouth, trusting he wasn't a maniac with a chemistry degree. It tasted like old carob. I thanked him for the candy that could be neither Swiss nor chocolate.
"Plus!" he continued, "Some girl flirted with me! I couldn't believe it, and she was gorgeous! So, that made me feel really good." That made me wonder if he would have been as flattered if she'd been toothless, hunchbacked, and bug-eyed. But he was a nice guy. However, I had to openly admit later that I feel somewhat weary in the presence of people who are that chatty and exuberant. Hyper-happiness sort of drains my energy and makes me want to be alone and quiet for a while.
Back in junior high and high school I was friends with a girl who was pretty frigging hyper. She was just hyper in general, so there was hyper-happiness and hyper-not-so-happiness. Most everything was just fucking high-strung. I refer to this old friend as Millie: Millie the Hyper.
Millie was the sort of person who would make herself more at home in your house than even you were. She would leave the room to go and eat whatever she found appetizing in your refrigerator or pantry. Often, she would saunter off to the bathroom to lounge on the toilet, singing loudly and unabashedly all the while, sometimes remaining there for a good half hour or longer. If you and she were watching a movie or television show together, there would be times she would get up mid-program to go into the kitchen and play the piano, where your mom or dad might be trying to read the paper or other written material. It seemed she roamed your house like a person existing among ghosts; you were not in her way, nor was she even aware of your existence much of the time.
Millie seemed to have lost something vital to her well-being sometime between junior high and high school. I don't know what happened, but it was unfortunate. She had it out for me in high school, although she still claimed me as her best friend. She despised me for being a singer because it was her dream. She hated me for having a close family. But then she would say things like, "I wish you were a guy because you'd be the best boyfriend."
When it came time to announce who was cast in what role in the school musicals, things would turn bitter, and I would lose my best boyfriend potential. We'd get into these strange arguments that made little sense to me, where the volume of her voice would rise far above necessary levels. That was an attempt to include passersby in our conversation, where she would throw in information that neither fit into what we had previously been discussing nor contained any truth, but that would inevitably spark their interest and a misinformed nod in her favour. On one occasion, we were having one of these insane arguments in the main intersection of the hallway inside the school. She turned to walk away, talking loudly in an I'll-get-the-last-word-in effort, when I reached out and touched her shoulder in an attempt to get her to stay and finish talking.
"Don't hit me!" she yelled, looking around to make sure someone had heard. When she saw that she had a small audience of three confused girls, she continued.
"Do not hit me, Linda."
There were the I didn't hit yous and the Yes you dids which flew back and forth before she stormed out the door in a dramatic frenzy worthy of the likes of Joan Crawford or Bette Davis. There I stood, with those girls silently judging me. I was mortified and pretty sure I would never set foot in school again.
The following year in eleventh grade, I befriended a ninth grade girl whom I met in drama. Kirstie was adorable and talented and fun, and a good friend at first. Millie was jealous, so she went and befriended her own ninth grade girl, Donna. We were like a couple of pimps with our bitches. Donna loved Jaclyn Smith, so I pretended to be Jaclyn's niece. God, the stories I told that girl about me and my Auntie J, Mom's sis. Millie played along, because when she wasn't caught up in some plan to ruin my high school experience, she could be pretty amiable.
I think I attracted every unstable, high-strung female in the city into my life when I was younger. I may have been a magnet for it. Poor little Kirstie, what with her alleged demon possession and all. And then there was The Soup Killer, who used to punch me in the arm repeatedly while I drove my car, despite firm demands to refrain from that annoying and painful activity. She would become so hyper at times it seemed she couldn't help herself.
"Make love to me!" she ordered one day, grabbing my arm and biting it until I had a large dark purple mark that lingered for days. I once made the mistake of getting very drunk with her in her bedroom. It was our senior year of high school and I had decided we absolutely needed to try Vodka Stingers, because I'd heard Barbra Streisand sing about them on her Broadway Album. So, we had a sleepover one night at her place. Soup Killer's parents had company that evening, and didn't bother to question us as we shuffled past with the blender and glasses toward her bedroom. SK already had the alcohol in her room, purchased that day by her older brother. We blended away, following a recipe discovered somehow or someway. That is one bloody horrible drink and should be outlawed everywhere. I drank one glass and became warmer than anyone really needs to be. Nothing containing Creme de Menthe should ever be consumed, and that's the truth.
"Let's go for a walk," I suggested. The walls were turning the greenish colour of the drink. I remember her bedroom had a hazy bluish-green lighting effect caused by nothing in particular on an average day, and now with the newly discovered green walls, it was perfectly vomitacious.
"No, let's stay inside."
I explained that I was feeling dizzy and needed some fresh air. I pleaded my case, which was met with nothing but more of the same. Then she got on top of me and started kissing my neck.
"Stop it—get off," I ordered. I was nauseated from the alcohol. She wouldn't stop, so I repeated myself. "SK, get off." Soup Killer would not budge. And that's when I blacked out. When I came to, I was being rocked and spoken to softly in her sister's arms. I still have no idea what took place between being on the floor, mauled and queasy, and being on the bed, comforted and confused. All I know is I could have been deflowered and wouldn't know it. I spent the next day far too sick to make sure my garden wasn't in disarray. I'm just glad we never got around to smoking those Tiparillos in addition to drinking what is only fair and right to refer to as The Devil's Bile.
Quote From My World
"I wish I could curse you so I'd feel better about myself. I wish I could save you for the same reason."
Well, I'm off to [insert fascinating activity here]. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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