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Explaining things, maybe
2003-05-31 - 10:42 p.m.


Songs of the moment: Pink Floyd - "Wish you were here" (the album)

In a funk. Thoughts in a jumble. Gotta write.

*Disclaimer: I'm sorry. I'm writing this shit mostly because I can't say one thing to one person. Don't read it. Haha, there, I warned you.*

Well. At werk today, when the other Shoe Girl asked me what I was doing tonight (a common question most people would ask, I guess, on a Saturday), I of course shrugged and said "Nothing." That's fine. She spent most of her shift on the phone making plans for her evening while I stood around. I'm used to this.

Now, storytime. Rewind your $4.99 VHS bargain bin copy of "The Life of Mangofarmer" to the middle school years. I had two best friends and we were inseparable. Sleepovers with ghost stories. Trips to the mally-mall to ogle the bikes (bikes?) at Sears, sneak candy into the movie theater, and of course, sit idly in the food court and boy-watch. Good times.

Come high school, this began to fall apart. One of these friends drifted away entirely. It happens. But the other one chose to begin to abandon me in quite a different way, starting mainly junior year. She got her license fairly quickly after she turned 16, but got into a couple traffic accidents and had it revoked after a year. I of course, did not have a license. But she discovered that licenses and cars were good. Those with them could skip first bell and go out to breakfast. These people could give rides home from school. Those without them had no choice but to go to class in relentless geekish pursuit of an education. Those without them had to endure long rides home on the bus, or worse, the late bus, which went way out in the country to drop off one kid first, before turning around and going back into town to drop off the afterschool detention crowd and Mangofarmer.

Not only that, but around junior year, "hanging out" became "going to miniature parties" in my eyes. To me, "hanging out" had always implied one or two friends. Not six or seven. I'm shy. I've always been shy. Large groups of people scare me.

So, the point is, by late in high school, among our group of friends, I had become the afterthought. Whether it was caused by lack of license or inherent antisocial tendencies, I don't know. I was the one you call when no one else is around. Scratch that, I was the one you call until some one else is around. And maybe I did help build this image for myself. I certainly didn't actively try to do anything about it.

And this is the kicker- I didn't try to do anything about it because I thought people didn't talk to me because I was too boring. Ha, I developed a boringness complex, which continued well on into college.

College. It took me a long time to really talk to anyone in college. Again, partially a mistake (is shyness a 'mistake'?) on my part, because there were some really cool people there. Amazing people, even. But again, the underlying fear of being too boring and the overall shyness went to work. (I had more to say about college but I forgot.)

It must drive people insane to hear me say "I'm too boring" all the time, and also to read the corresponding whiny shit in this diary. Hell, it drives anyone insane to hear people say "I'm too (insert shortcoming here)" all the time. But what I'm trying to say is, my boringness complex comes from experience. To me, opening up to people is dangerous, because I have a great tendency to crawl right back into my shell at a moment's notice- maybe this scares people off, I don't know. I really don't know.

If only people would hang around the outside of the shell for a while, and listen, they might hear a quiet little voice begging for attention, for companionship, for someone to hang out with *especially* when there are more interesting or talkative people around, for love. Because who knows (I sure don't)? I might not be boring after all. Which is why sometimes I halfheartedly say "people should come visit me at werk" or "I wish...... " Yeah, maybe people don't know what they're missing. Or maybe I'm just kidding myself because no one *really* gives a fuck, at least, not anymore.

Gah. Losing coherency in train of thought. Must stop rambling.

*big fat hairy sigh of relief and general funk-ness*

Now, for something completely different, dfirefly got me thinking about the one and only time I got called to the assistant principal's office in high school. And yes, it was for bad behavior!

*gasp*

My freshman year, talk around town was to rename the high school for some historical figure. This cause a great ruckus amongst the people of Craptown, and the students of Craptown High School (and yes, I will describe this ruckus). You see, there is only one high school in Craptown, whereas a place like Bumblefuck of course has many. The people of Craptown like things simple. They also don't know how to spell very well. So they didn't want to change the name of their school.

One sunny day, the students tried to take this into their own hands and staged a little protest, in place of first period. There was a good deal of general milling about in the front of the school. Now, as for me, I was in symphonic band at that time. For whatever reason, we weren't playing that day anyway, so when the ditzy young band director was asked if she would let some of us "go outside" (no one knew what was going on outside at that point), she agreed.

So, little geeky schoolgirl Mangofarmer went outside to join her first protest. To me, it wasn't that exciting. Of course, by this point, many teachers had realized that many students were not in class. As the first class period ended, the doors had been locked around the building (does anyone even recall the fact that high school didn't used to be a police state with armed guards? times of course have changed... ), therefore signalling that those outside were in Big Trouble. I joined many of my colleagues in wandering around, trying door after door. I had no luck until the end of second period, when they were slowly letting in the student ID-bearing penitent one by one at one door. Alas, my ID was in my backpack which was still sitting in the band room. Luckily, my guidance counselor was standing right there. She looked at me sternly. I was about to cry. She let me in.

Of course, I was therefore called to the AP's office. He had trouble pronouncing my name, having never seen me before. He took one look at my flawless permanent record and said,

"This will never happen again, right?"

I nodded, meekly.

And thus ends the story of one of the only times Mangofarmer has been a Bad Girl. And it was a pitiful one at that.

I'm still "so lonesome I could cry." Mmmmm. Yes, that line fits nicely. Gotta go do up the sad playlist now.

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