I would have titled this “Running through the halls of my high school and screaming at the top of my lungs” if it wouldn’t have been the second John Mayer reference in one week, and God help me

I got a MySpace message today from a guy I went to high school with, and hadn’t spoken to since about 8th grade, who was searching for the phone numbers of two of our classmates. I can only guess he must have MySpaced everyone in our graduating class that he vaguely recognized, because there are approximately 400 people who would be more likely to be in touch with these two guys than I. They were all football players, and I wasn’t exactly a hanger-on.

In fact, one of their other friends, whom I’ll call Rhymes With Hate, profoundly loathed me in a way that I think could probably only be explained by the most comprehensive of psychiatric evaluations. RWH was a maniacal douchebag to everyone, to be sure, but something about my very existence pushed his beady-eyed buttons every which way. From the ages of 12 to 17, he harrassed, heckled, and quite literally threw rocks at me for no apparent reason. When I tell people about this now, they invariably suspect that RWH carried some kind of twisted little torch for me, but I am certain that this was not the case– his behavior was fueled by a minimum of 98.9% pure antagonism.

About a year after I graduated from high school, my extremely hot cousin Beth was at a party and approached by an inebriated RWH, who coincidentally went to her college. Drawn as most humans are to Beth’s liberal coating of pheremones, RWH asked her where she was from, yadda yadda. When he told her where he went to high school, she said “oh! my cousin Evie went there!” Upon hearing my name, RWH spontaneously combusted. He flew into a rage of epithets, telling her I was a monumental toolbox, had no friends, and had been a huge slut. Now, Beth and I didn’t go to high school together, but she knew me solidly enough to doubt all of this, especially the slut part. It certainly was news to me. She promptly told him to go to hell, because that’s the kind of saint she is, and also because who the hell would think that slandering a girl’s family is going to get him laid?

I haven’t heard anything about RWH since, and I would love to say that I don’t give a shit, but I don’t think that’s exactly true. To be perfectly honest, I would be a little bit delighted to hear that he’d suffered a heartbreaking incident or reputational downfall, because I’m allowing myself one lifetime grudge of totally adolescent antipathy. In the 12 years since high school, I have at various points fantasized about some Romi & Michelle-style comeupance at our 20th reunion or whatever. It’s not that I really ever took any of his crap to heart– I had a genuinely large ego as a teenager, and knew he was just deeply insecure or insane, but I wasn’t bulletproof. And as I am not one to make enemies, I might as well glorify the one I have.

I should be sure to mention that the guy who MySpaced me was never in my memory anything but pleasant or indifferent, and in fact was pretty squarely on the cuddly dork side of the playground until he learned how to play football. Also, I can’t imagine that any of RWH’s friends would dispute the fact that he was an evil twatwaffle, so I’m not really concerned about offending anyone.

Anyway, the moral of the story, if there is one, is this: Fucking MySpace.

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2 Comments

  1. “I can only guess he must have MySpaced everyone in our graduating class that he vaguely recognized, because there are approximately 400 people who would be more likely to be in touch with these two guys than I.”

    You know, I’m sure, the question that I’m dying to ask here, so just give me a yes or no answer.

    By the sort of way, I had a dream last night that Erin got in a bike accident and was a paraplegic and was working behind the deli counter. I think I still have guilt over that time she was in the hospital and we thought she was with her stinky boyfriend.

  2. No.

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