The other day my buddy Kathleen and I were in the checkout line at some ghetto store. The man in front of us turned around and started at us for a while. "Hi," he said. Now, I'm generally not very friendly. Especially when strange men talk to me. But since the man was obviously "special," I said hello. He then asked if we were mother and daughter. Now please, let me remind you, that Kathleen and I are a mere 3 years apart. Granted, she looks like an 11-year-old, and I generally look like a 45-year-old Tijuana hooker, but I was offended nonetheless.
I said yes, I was her mother. Kathleen immediately went into sullen teen mode to back my story, and started kicking her own feet and staring petulantly at the floor to help convey the ennui and alienation she was now feeling as my daughter. He told us that he could have almost mistaken us for sisters, because I looked pretty young. "Well, I was a young mother," I said. He nodded, and then his eyes rolled back to their original walleyed postion and he went back to drooling on himself. He then purchased his used copies of "Guns and Ammo" and other assorted camping magazines and then darted--if a 300 pound man can dart--with the magazines, into the bathroom from which he did not emerge.
Kathleen and I giggled hysterically and finally made it back to the car where we had a supply of wet-naps to wipe the impurities of the day off our hands.
Later that day we checked our grades online. We had taken two classes together, and I was dismayed to see that Kathleen had gotten an A in our British lit class while I had received an A-. Of course this sent me into a frenzied spiral of self-loathing and bitter rage, until I received an email the next morning from the professor telling me that she had made a mistake with the grades and that I had earned an A as well. Yes folks, another semester with a 4.0. Let's hear it for your little cupcake! My hysterical perfectionism that will surely one day result in the taking of my own life has paid off once again. Go me!
In related news, when I told my parents about my grades, my father said to me, "You know Lina, if you hadn't have gotten straight A's we wouldn't love you anymore. And you're adopted." I shit you not. That was my father's reaction to my stellar GPA.
I'm still looking for work. I'd really rather not work, because I'm like a delicate hothouse flower who is doomed, to when confronted with a situation where I have to behave in a socially acceptable manner, to often finding myself at a loss and starting to wilt. I was obviously meant to be born independently wealthy but god--who is, mind you, a vengeful one--spited me yet again.
Don't have a lot of cash to buy a car? Worry no more, just because this is possible to get the loan to work out such kind of problems. Thus take a bank loan to buy all you require.
Maria22Craig | August 2, 2010 5:04 PM | ReplyHow long has this board been around? I've put my site up but I can't figure out why there's all this spam crap here. San Diego Clubs, Bars, Entertainment
Jess | November 3, 2004 6:17 PM | Replyhey! you liar! lying is a sin! cut it out!
alex | December 7, 2003 1:26 PM | ReplyActually, it did happen that way. I banged her right there. But you know, I don't like to talk about stuff like that in my blog, so I lie. It's not journalism, you know.
Lina | June 13, 2003 10:57 AM | ReplyWoulda been cooler if, after you told the checkout guy you were mother and daughter, you and your friend started making out right in front of him.
Even if it didn't happen that way, you should have made it up. It's not like blogs are journalism, after all.
myrch | June 13, 2003 10:55 AM | Replylove your hair when it's flipped out. Looks good up too.
On the work tip, I think as long as you don't HAVE to work, don't do it.
congrats on the 4.0 ;)
Crystal | June 11, 2003 9:07 AM | ReplyOh for Pete's sake, Update!
Pete C | June 7, 2003 3:15 AM | ReplySweet Caroline is the only thing I sing at weddings. The tux always makes me sing better.
k | June 4, 2003 11:46 AM | ReplyYes that really is Kathleen, and Sweet Caroline is my favorite Neil Diamond song. xoxo
Lina | May 29, 2003 2:49 AM | Replyhaving to act socially acceptable in any situation is unacceptable.
alex kidd | May 28, 2003 11:30 PM | Reply"You're so sweet" is playing in my little mind and won't go away. But I can't find that song so you'll have to settle for "Sweet Caroline"
http://www.smashlv.com/neildiamond.mpg
Michael | May 27, 2003 4:48 PM | ReplyHi Lina,
Johnny | May 26, 2003 12:03 PM | ReplyGreat story. I laughed...I cried....It was better than Cats. Anyway, is that really a picture of your friend Kathleen? It made my day. Thanks
i want to know why you are in love with an adorable little elf such as myself, when you can get 4.0's and i am barely scamming my way through graduation
your babys' dada
zacky | May 26, 2003 12:02 PM | ReplyDarling, you will always be my little Tijuana hooker.
Fran | May 26, 2003 9:45 AM | ReplyThe problem with comments is that throughout my life, I have conventionally been asked to reserve them for a more appropriate time. As a child, I was outspoken. It was quickly apparent to those around me that if this type of behavior was not hustled into extermination, it would luxuriate out of control.
The only son of two young professionals, there was only one option presented by the good Lord. I was beaten with a belt - buckle not removed - until a lesson had been concocted and forced upon me. If I was observed to be holding off the acceptance of this lesson, via crying, I was beaten until personal mental surrender.
As is typical for this line of narrative, I feel some background or pre-exposition may be required. In my more elemental state, I was privy to a glut of food. No doubt to save me the horror from a life of obese inelegance, my guardians informed me of my true cultivation. It seems that as a toddler, my progenitors decided early that they had failed to produce viable offspring. Not doddling in their decision making, I was placed onto a wicker chair, restrained with enmity, and the vine/nursling conglomeration was situated into a dumpster behind a local pizzaria. As explained by them, my adoptive parents chanced upon a miraculous find while searching through various waste receptacles. Unable to dislodge me from their bounty, I was to be brought home as well. Truly, you must not allow yourself to flouder upon abhorrence for the promoter of this tale. Noticeably, I was informed of my pedigree in this manner to subconciously instill a hatred of luncheonettes. Their hopes, my hopes, were fruitless.
Seeing as how their attempts have miscarried, I found myself being verbally stimulated on a daily basis. Eventually I judiciously became a jack in the physical art of assault retention. These generous actions drew the attention of a dramatic coach. Through years of unabridged training, He was able to route out my true personality. Immediately after the ferreting out of this discombobulation, and subsequent re-calculation, I was dismissed with prejudice. Quite vocal in my departure, I was ramshackled into a closet and left for a short span. Finding nourishment in discarded puddings, I overpowered the unlocked(as I phlegmatically discovered) door. Revelling in my grand emancipation, I determined my next course of action. Succeeding a minor degree of stalking, I was able to locate my quondam docent. At the age of 8, weighing in at 176 pounds, He was recognizably no match for my stature. If you can conceptualize, I present an atypical scenario to you. My patriarch, completely lacking in restraint, entering upon an elephantine cherub lording over the obliterated form of whilom homosexual flamboyance. As it was the only door left open to him, I was buckled into a traquil state of unconciousness.
Let me assure you that my face, posture, and general manner of carrying myself would be more suited to radio than the television - let alone the stage. For these facts alone, the outcome of these events were not disturbing to me. However, I was left with one of many impressions that are relevant here. If I interject my personal thought into impending conversations, my ability to walk independently may disintegrate. Most truly, this fear must descend from the multitude of spinal beatings receieved after inheriting my conciousness. As I do not wish to be meringued so extensively in the future, I hold temperance as a quality most dear. You must see, I am not being rude. I simply do not wish to require paraplegic paraphernalia for mobility.
Percy Clayton | May 24, 2003 6:03 PM | Replyyour parents FUCKING RULE.
ps: you're adopted
XAdamDX | May 24, 2003 2:57 AM | Reply