Flash Dance Ass Pants


My mis-wired brain goes back in time too frequently for my preferred in-the-moment experience. I suddenly found myself transported to 1992 today. I had just started self-medicating with “gateway drugs” with some of *those* friends you’re warned about. I was depressed and miserable, and I’d do anything for crumbs of friendship and a buzz to make me forget I wanted to die.
One such mis-wired friend was Sharon. I’m not even faking her name; she’s not worth the waste of a pseudonym. She treated me like shit, but I worshipped her. My mom bought me a skirt I actually liked, which is weird for a teenager, and Sharon said to me, “You don’t deserve that, let me have it.” I protested weakly, but it was pathetic. My caveat: “Don’t tear it like you do all your other skirts.” I saw her three days later and she had destroyed it. I was too embarrassed to go home in it to my mom so didn’t even bother to take it back, just whimpered, “I asked you not to tear it.”
I don’t remember why I was telling you about Sharon exactly, except that maybe the point was that I have no desire to go to 1992 and see Sharon and my ruined skirt. Why re-visit a hideous human being in a seriously deranged part of my life? I have no wish to, it’s just that the record skips and goes back to a previous track.
I wore that skirt for eight hours, yet I’ve seen it countless times. I haven’t found a purpose for this yet other than torment. I guess I’m supposed to learn from it—don’t have shitty friends—but what I feel is anger and frustration. I’m minding my own business, la-ti-da, and then bam! 1992 and a blue and pink flowered skirt I adored destroyed by the girl I idiotically called my best friend. I’m supposed to learn that friends should actually follow the heart-felt passion of the spirit of friendship, not the biting anger of enemies.
I would truly like to conclude this moralistic essay on the Sharons of my life by exhorting with passion, “And I have out-grown cold callousness to feel the enveloping love of growth,” but I can’t, honestly. Instead I can just say, “Goddamn I wish I wouldn’t go to 1992.”
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