Every time I hear Lady Gaga’s “they used to throw me in trash cans” story, I get irritated. Woman, ahem, Lady, shouldn’t you be screaming “FUCK HATERS” while you roll around in a pile of money and tear-stained fans willing to sell their grandma for your concert tickets? Then why are you crying on a couch next to Joy Behar?

I judge too quickly. With the help of Sheryl Crow, I remember that the first cut really is the deepest. Anyone who made it through grade school and high school can probably identify with this special brand of selective memory. You, the delightful snowflake of individuality that you are, were the innocent victim of the brutal insensitivities and insecurities of others. Truth be told, you were probably a hormonal narcissist only attuned to dings to your own ego. I have it on good authority that I was a heartless, vindictive bitch more than half of the time between the ages of 11 and 16; but I can tell you with total honesty that I remember none of it. I do, however, remember in shocking detail any insensitive or cruel thing that was said or done to me.  They were life lessons, planting itty bitty seeds of bitterness.

The scene was 4th grade homeroom. It was a Tuesday, and I was rocking my baggy jeans and Nike t-shirt. This kid, whom to this day I still refer to as a d-bag, goes “see, I told you.” I have no clue what’s going on until this girl, who I will set aside personal feelings for because she took her fair share of shit in highschool, goes, “haha, tell us what she will wear tomorrow!” Busted. I am a type A creature or habit…things were particularly bad when I didn’t have anything better to do besides organize my school supplies and candle collection. The next day, I traversed to the back of my closet to dig out a t-shirt with a glow in the dark alien on it (I used to wear it when I wanted to feel cool following my brothers to Skateland on Fridays) just to throw those bastards off their game. The year was 1997, the year I learned that people are judgmental and this kid was a douche bag. 

The scene is Mrs. Boyd’s  5^th grade American History class. We are divided into small groups of four and reading the week’s chapter out loud to one another. The girl reading the thoughtful last-paragraph aside on “oh, many slaves were brutalized in the making …and it was really bad, kids” comes across a honorable mention for some guy named Johnson (super effective teaching, right?) and gets upset. Why do all of these black people have to have *my* last name? The year was 1998, the year I not only learned what it was going to mean to grow up in a small town in Wisconsin, but the year I learned that this girl was a cunt.

The scene is my kitchen, seated at our family computer – with internet. The height of technology had allowed for voice messages to be opened through email, and we busy 7^th grade girls on summer vacation definitely needed to use it on nights we weren’t sleeping at each other’s houses. This was a time when one day could make the call on whether or not you and your BFFs were friends or enemies. I open my inbox to find a very recognizable voice not so subtly disguised informing me that I was a fat bitch and people talked about me behind my back. Oh, and I looked like a rotten apple in my favorite red BUM Equipment t-shirt from Shopko. The year was 2000, the year I learned about body image issues. You’ll be pleased to know it was also the year that I discovered that there were calories in Pepsi and ranch dressing. *Disclaimer* to this day, said girl completely denies that this ever happened (see thesis).

The scene is late-night at George Webbs. Just a few 16 year-olds with freshly printed drivers licenses, experimenting with flavored cigarettes and finding out what happens outside of the living room after 10:00pm. Some lone wolf, middle aged creep sitting behind us claims he’s got “intuition” and starts to “read” us. He tells me that I have full lips and appreciate a nice sensual kiss. Then, he makes a loop around my wrist with his middle finger and thumb and tells me that my best bet is a low carb diet.  The year was 2004, the year I learned that men are creepy assholes.

The scene is group dinner for senior homecoming. I was pleased that a particular person had asked me to be his date. I over-paid to have my hair done. I suffered the indignity of wearing a dress that had glitter on it. I was going to homecoming with a date damnit. Said person shows up stoned and twenty minutes late, throws money on the table for my dinner (I guess that was kind of sweet) and goes back to the parking lot to do pulls of Jag before stumbling in to dance with me once. The year was 2005, the year …I didn’t learn anything.