|I’m Assuming We Can Still Throw Our Hands In the Air|
Yes, I’m talking about my 20-year high school reunion (It’s been how long?).
As horrifying and sad as it may be to see the very people who I lusted over looking like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, there’s still a part of me that will hopefully look past the difficult aging process and be willing to shove my tongue down their throats.
Because in order for me to maintain the elaborate masturbation rituals set up back when I was a teenage girl, these people still need to do it for me. Otherwise I would have spent the last twenty years pleasuring myself to them for no reason other than nostalgia.
And that seems real sad.
Now, I’m an angry and bitter woman so I expect this weekend to go as well as most of my high school experiences went, which is to say, off-putting and embarrassing, but deep down, where that eighteen-year-old girl who once believed that the world was her oyster still resides, I’m hoping that the reunion resembles more like the Scissor Sisters song Let’s Have a Kiki.
Which looks something like this:
That way at least when I come back home my emotional scars will have a much better soundtrack than the one it has now…which is mostly a playlist involving a shitload of The Smiths songs to which I cry to.