Worms and Perms

I'm a pack rat. A horrible slave to sentimentality. Because when I was young and thought life was going to be great and that I'd grow up to be somebody pretty incredible--a real somebody, that even nobodys wanted to know--I found it necessary to save all my "important" correspondence and mementos for my children and their children and my presidential library. Stuff like the break-up note from Glenn Peterson. What a worm. I wonder if he remembers asking me out. We were a couple for about two days. He said "Will you go out with me?" nervously by my locker on his way to the boys room on Friday afternoon, called me on Saturday, and broke up with me on Monday morning. In a note. Which he didn't even give me himself, but instead first to Aaron Perlow, who passed it along to me sheepishly with an "I'm sorry..." in French, and I hyperventilated during the whole class, and Mrs. Michaels asked me if I wanted to see the nurse but I was too embarrassed to that, so instead I bawled my eyes out in the girl's room. He asked me to "go out" with him and we didn't go friggin' anywhere before he dumped me. What the hell is that sh*t? Anyway, I read some of this sh*t at Get Mortified's Boston Debut on Saturday night and --save for the 20 drunk Massholes who thought they were there to see Andrew Dice Clay--it was friggin' awesome. It would only have been more awesome had I drank champagne from my actual 1980 something junior prom champagne glass emblazoned with our prom theme Wishing on a Star. Back then, I had fantastic, dewy skin. I also had 15 extra pounds, a huge perm, and no clue. Oh, youth is wasted on the young, isn't it? It sure is.
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