- People talk about how they have memory blackouts of traumatic events.
I don't think I've ever had one, unless getting hammered on 12 drinks in
two hours counts as a traumatic experience. But yesterday I realized
I did have a memory tucked so far into the back of my mind that I
thought my brain would have an aneurysm out of embarrassment if it remembered
it. But I have, and I'm still alive and droppin' knowledge.
In 6th grade, I was a colossal nerd. I couldn't dress, had few friends, read comic books and played role playing games, had big glasses, and was getting fat. I was so far from cool that I was like, anti-cool. But like the sheep that I always have been, I wanted to emulate the cool kids.
I had PE first period during sixth grade, so I would get dressed and then wait out and mull around until the other kids and the teacher came out. A few kids, cool kids, were hanging out over by a wall. One by one, they would stand on a windowsill and look through the transom above the door next to the window (the window was blacked out). Observing them for a minute, and judging by their reactions and words, I figured out what was up. They were looking into the girl's locker room while the girlies changed into their shorts and T-shirts.
Hormonal overload ensued; I mean dood, what 12-year old boy wouldn't pass up this Porky's-like opportunity? OK, besides a 12-year old boy with some moral fabric or a healthy fear of getting caught? So I wandered over to await my turn. It came. Yeeeeaaah boy!
I got my foot on the door jam, got my balance and stepped up onto the sill, reached my head over to the transom and tried to look. I was still trying to get my balance so my fat ass wouldn't fall to earth, when...
"Hey! Get off of there! What do you think you're doing! Come with me!"
The exact words and memories at this point are lost to me. I remember getting caught by Mrs. Olmstead, who was actually one hot PE teacher herself. I remember going into the locker room (the boys' locker room, unfortunately), and sitting down there. I remember having to explain myself. I remember going back out to PE and being horribly embarrassed and having this cute chick name Bryn look at me like with condemning eyes. None of the other peeping toms got in trouble -- I didn't name names. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure they laughed at me about it.
that, I was content to ogle 12-year old girls with their clothes on.
After all, I was 12 -- I got horny reading the X-Men.
Things continue not to go well on the Haole job front. Besides being an overcast day, which has been affecting by pussy ass by making me more moody, I talked with Ray today. He says that he spoke to some people, and that his firm are looking for people with experience first. So my second interview looks unlikely to come off at all. I know, things seemed pretty good. But I didn't know, and neither did Ray, that this "experience" thing was a factor. "Pshaw" I say to experience. Pshaw! In case you're wondering, working in a law library doesn't give one any useful skills when it comes to being a paralegal. It doesn't give you much of anything useful, except how to deal with gay librarians.
So right after I hung up the phone I did what I should have done a month ago and called a temp agency. I got a referral from some loser, who's gonna want some money out of it. Anyhow, I interview on Monday afternoon. It's a Westside agency, so whatever jobs I might get are gonna be on the Westside. Normally that would be good, but with my problems with Jenny and practically everyone telling me to get my ass out of the apartment and away from her, if it works out it leaves me with even more questions. Like, do I continue to stick it out there or find some other (EXPENSIVE) place on the Westside?
I did smoke up yesterday, but my friend wouldn't let me buy any bud off of him.