My boyfriend loves to relive his high school years. Whenever he gets together with his former classmates, they always drone on and on about all the 'crazy' things they did back in the day. 'How about when' and 'do you remember how' are monopolizing the conversation most of the time. Then, he usually turns to me all giddy in his seat: "Listen to this now, now comes the best part!" Trust me, I know which part is coming now, I've heard this and all of the other stories roughly 73 times already. And they've lost all the crazy mojo they might had had after the 7 time hearing them. But I nod and smile politely because I can sense his tail wagging and I can see the excited puppy look on his face when he or anyone else is telling the tale and there's really nothing wrong with remembering 'the good old days'.
When I was in high school, I refused to have a boyfriend. That being said, I didn't refuse to have sex, what resulted in an undisclosed amount of casual sex with an undisclosed amount of sexual partners. I don't remember having many bad experiences, it was all fun and games for all parties involved just as God intended sexual intercourse to be. Probably.
When I was about 17 years old, something somewhat bad happened which might have been a sign of God intervening and reproaching me for all the fun I was having. Of course that's not how I took it because I rarely shy away from a challenge so I took matters into my own hands and dealt with the situation - instead of becoming more cautious, I grew stronger. So what's the story?
One evening, I don't even remember how that happened to be honest, I got close to a boy from my high school. I mean really close. Really really REALLY close. Like -12 centimeters/-5 inches close (it was probably a lot more than that, but I'm telling the story so I reserve the right to some artistic shrinkage). After all was said and done (and there was definitely a lot more being done than said) we bid each other adieu and that was it. Or so I thought.
In a couple of days, that little weasel told a bunch of his friends a bunch of stuff that made him look like a twin turbo Lamborghini Murciélago with 22 inch rims and tinted windows of the sex world. And me? I was made out to be the car that Fred Flintstone drove. I was so pissed. I was absolutely livid. Not because it was true or not, but because that's just something you simply don't do. But soon after, the initial shock had settled down and I started plotting how I could get the bastard back. And I've come up with what I think was a brilliant plan. I got pregnant.
Well, I didn't actually get pregnant. I just said I did. And since nor Murciélago nor Flintstones-mobil had any condoms on hand that night, my phantom pregnancy was more than believable. All of his friends found out (I personally made sure of that) and for about a week, people were pretty distraught, even me - I had to be, I was playing the part. One day during lunch time, I even burst into tears in front of him and his friends in the canteen. I still don't know where the tears came from - I just started balling tears the size of basketballs, stood up and ran outside. My friend, who was eating lunch with me, ran after me and as soon as she closed the door, we started rolling on the floor laughing. It was priceless. But listen to this now, now comes the best part!
After a fair amount of time had passed, it was time to let everybody know the truth. But how? In the most cool way possible, duh. That high school of ours was a pretty musical one, there were a lot of hip hop and rock bands (Eminem and Limp Bizkit were huge back then) and it seemed that everyone was writing their own music and lyrics. I know I did. And I knew that Mr. Murciélago did too. So I wrote a song and gave it to him, pretending that I wanted his opinion since I knew he was 'a rhyming genius'. In the lyrics, I explained my pregnancy and how I felt about what he did and I basically put the bitch in his place. It felt great. It felt especially great when his friends later came up to me and told me that I'm good. I don't know about that but I'm definitely no victim, I do know that.
And since this post wouldn't be complete without the lyrics, below you can read a couple of lines. I'm posting just one quarter of the entire song because it's too long and I really said some inappropriate stuff about his genitals (something about a dick and dog and lick maybe), his performance and his skills as a lyricist (You're supposed to be witty and smart? I know that for you that has to be awfully hard since you have to use all of your brain power just to fart). But I think that the following chunk's enough to get my point across, wouldn't you agree?
|Pants - eBay, blazer - C&A, necklace - H&M, heels - eBay|
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