Redemption... and then some.

I recognize that most of you, after reading my last post, thought I was a raging bitch. Some, for really tearing in to my former self - and most, for how I appalling I was as a tween. 

I'd like to offer up the following as proof that I wasn't completely awful - or completely depressed - as my "Poems from the Edge" will have you believe. This story, disguised as a poem, gives you a glimpse of my sister and mine relationship (you'll see). 

I distinctly remember that I thought that shirt was really sexy and enhanced my bustline.
I was clearly wrong.

See! I wasn't the Veruca Salt of the 7th grade - though I did get gold eggs this Easter.


Luckily, good ole Ash didn't go thousands of miles away as the drama queen inside of me believed. She went to Miami... and I did, indeed, follow in her footsteps. 


I suppose I'm still pesky, trying to convince her to day drink in costumes with me every weekend - but yes, as suspected, we are still sisters. Just in case anyone was wondering. 


Deep down inside, I must have known I would be making this mushy stuff public, because I wrote a follow up song for those of you who have a weak stomach when it comes to familial love proclamations. 


Another KT Fantasy ditty coming to you with a simple request this week - don't barf on me.

P.S. I hate you.

This one is painful. I see annoying pre-teens looking sullen and annoyed just about everywhere I go and I constantly want to yell at them. I'd probably rank them on my family dynamic pet peeve list somewhere between parents smoking in front of their children and those that ignore their screaming child in a bookstore. 

This is where the real "hindsight" comes in, because I am about to give my 12 year old self a piece of my mind.

Wow, really Kels? First of all, you weren't even invited to that party - despite the fact that it was for one of your diaper-age besties. Here's what happened, he got cool - and you didn't. He didn't think to bring you around, but you got a pity invite from your large-breasted friend who needed a ride there. She quickly navigated to the makeout room and you spent the night avoiding Joe's advances past 1st base. 

Given that, I wonder why your so strict mother didn't want you to attend. Sure, go ahead and blame your siblings for not paving the way to popularity for you, that way you don't have to accept the fact that your awful personality might be the problem. 

Thanks for that last minute reminder that you're still a bitch. Here I was thinking you had a one track mind focused on boys, but now I see that you can get out of that head of yours to focus on the big issues. Like putting your hateful feelings in a post script. Awesome. 

All good reasons to hate the woman who brought you into this world. Just for fun, let's play devil's advocate (despite the fact that you're actually the one acting like the devil). 

1. You went to 5,000 bar-mitzvahs and she's sick of spending her day driving you around, dropping twenties into cards, and hearing you whine about wanting to be Jewish so you can have a big party.

2. Oh, no. I'm sure so many awesome things were happening in that basement, reeking of children in the throws of puberty.

3. She would have let you go to someone else's house, but inviting another self-involved brat to her home to reassure you that your parents do, like, totally, suck probably wasn't at the top of her list.

4. You're annoying. You have nothing important to talk about.

5. See #1

6. No, she doesn't think you're five - she thinks you're freaking obnoxious and she wants to get your snotty attitude out of her way as early as possible. I'm sure she wishes you were five when you were cute and didn't think you were cool enough to drop the F bomb in to casual conversation. 

Do it - run away. Your life really is unfair. Damn those kind and loving parents who provide you with everything you've ever needed. Ugh. And no, you can't change bitchy moms, no more than you can change completely egocentric horrifying excuses for daughters. 

I'm sorry, Mom.

Quoth the Hawke, "Nevermore."

This is the first of a series of poems that I submitted to my 8th grade English teacher. As it turns out, this was quite the dark time in my life. I have thus titled this blog mini-series "Poems from the Edge." Please enjoy the coffee house reading of "Yesterday, Tomorrow, Today"... 

(feel free to imagine me dressed in head to toe black clothing with a cigarette tucked behind my ear)

I should have titled this one "Yesterday, Today, Mayyybe Tomorrow." 

The truly concerning thing is the grade I got on this project. As you can see, I was awarded a 10/10 for each of my wrist-slashing poems. Why, oh, why wasn't I reported to a suicide hotline - or at the very least, the school guidance counselor? Another student slips through the cracks, another child left behind... failed by the system, once again.

 

I'm sure people would pay big money for Edgar's draft of "The Raven," so I'll start the bidding on the following at $5.00...

In conclusion, thanks Mrs. C! Thanks for deducting those two points (really?) and ignoring my desperate cries for help.

On the Cusp (of Crazy)

After my month long love affair with my bad boy first kiss, I'd like to think that I was put on the map in terms of the 7th grade popularity rank. My gangley arms, crooked teeth, giant glasses and all around weird personality kept me right on the cusp of being popular, but I never quite made it there. However, that didn't stop me from dating above and beyond my social status, so when Joe asked me out -- correction, when Joe demanded we go out -- I clearly obliged. 

As you can see, the newfound popularity was already getting to my head. I didn't even have enough time to truly fill my diary in that week on my intense feelings that had developed over four days. How did our flirtation begin? Why didn't I include his romantic declaration of love and proposal for my hand in going-out-dom? What was I going to wear to the dance? Were Joe and I going to get our french on?

So many unanswered questions!

Well, apparently all I needed to know was that dating out of your league has its downsides. For example, you become completely insane.

"He's my boyfriend and he's cooler than me." HA. 


Also, I don't want you guys to get the wrong impression about this track thing. I wasn't kidding about the gangley arms, and they were paired with some equally awkward and useless legs. I typically went to track in order to flirt with Joe, walk around the track a few times and then cry shin splints. I never ran in a single track meet the two years I was on the team. 


And yet somehow I wonder why I got cut from the softball team in high school after putting down my (metaphorical, because we weren't allowed to have them) pom-pons after I finished my big bad 8th grade year. 


Finally, I suppose I didn't trust my vow to overcome the three big relationship hurdles (ha, track pun) I was committing to if they were only in my diary. So I drew up a little contract, found a notary and made it official:

If I could go back, I would likely erase point number two. After all, this was the same girl who shoved shaving cream in my face and was all up on my men all the time.

(Confession: I distinctly remember requesting "The Boy is Mine" at school dances and singing it loudly and with attitude to my friends while standing extremely close to her. This may have gotten me pushed into lockers in high school, but I think it was worth it.)

Well I worked and worked to keep our relationship alive, but something still wasn't right. 

Perhaps my desperation to be the cool kid's girlfriend - even if he never spoke to me - was a bit of a turn off? Perhaps the fact that I justified calling him a million times a day by claiming that it wasn't that much if you divided it between his two parents' houses. Or perhaps that I stuck out like a sore thumb at the cool kid parties, because only one other person talked to me and half of them didn't know my name. 

But ya know what Joe? Despite all that, if god bestows a miracle upon my brush with popularity and allows you to put up with my pitiful self-esteem, then by golly! "Let's go out."