The first few weeks of summer are fun. It’s the only time of year I can really justify staying up until three and sleeping past twelve-thirty. There’s really nothing to get up for. Not much longer until summer classes start and I have to sit through lectures on accounting three hours a day…of all the anal things he could make me take. Oh well, it was on the suggested schedule for my intended major, and it’s a hell of a lot better than a bio lab….having my tonsils scraped with toothpicks would be better than that. Before this becomes a problem, I have to get on a plane with Puddin and her mom and Tootsie and Sailorstartwirler the duck and asssorted other odds and ends (but mostly odds) and go spread the Splut around somewhere else. At this point I would almost rather stay home and sleep and blow my graduation money on subtitled Sailormoon and spiky shoes and cute little dresses that I’ll never wear because I think my thighs are gross but that I just want to look at.
Flat shoes annoy the hell out of me unless they’re sandals. I don’t care if I’m going to ruin my feet and make my toes telescope and crack my spine. If I have to wear shoes at all, and I’d rather not, I’m going to wear them so I break my ankles. What really annoys me are those damned chunky square heeled things I always end up with. My mother, who of course knows everything, not that I’m going to listen, says it provides better support. So what? I hate shoes. I want to run through the surf barefoot and sharpen my toenails to points and do painful things with them to little boys who piss me off…
This covers about ninety-six percent of the world’s male population at this time. Little boys have this talent. Tootsie is really obnoxious. Puddin says he doesn’t act like that around anyone else and I am truly blessed. I kicked him in his bad knee because I didn’t know he had one. I was almost kind of sorry but not quite. Never quite.
And then of course there’s his anal-retentive obsessive-compulsive brother. But we don’t talk about him.
And the bizarre psychotic ones who stalk you and then try to give you guilt trips because you can’t force yourself to like them. That’s my favorite kind, I think. Little boys don’t want girlfriends, they want mothers and therapists. Sailorkitty is everyone’s mother, but she is a mean, vicious mother who will bite your hands off if you get too close. Missourians, or Americans, whatever deficient demographic group I have to put up with on a day-to-day basis, have a real problem with respecting my personal space, which is probably a lot bigger than most peoples’. I don’t know if it’s anti-social or normal or a physical manifestation of my deep-running fear of rejection or what, but I’m one of those people who jump ten feet when you touch their shoulder, even when they saw you coming. I think it offends my parents when they lean over to hug me and I push them away, but they have premature empty-nest-syndrome anyway. My dad wants me to live at home until I’m twenty-seven and my mom is jealous because he likes me more than he likes her. I just think it’s funny.
I am a shameless slut. I am eating peanut butter and trying to compensate for something. I hate peanut butter. I am masochistic and punishing myself for my sins by feeding myself grotesque food and trying to make my worst fear…getting fat…fatter….a reality. This would explain why my onion ring consumption has tripled during the last semester. I like to make food. And I like to eat it. I just want to puke it up when I’ve done with it. But it would give me bad teeth and make Punkin force feed me straight lard so I don’t.