It's actually Friday night, not Saturday, no matter what the blog is telling you. It is Friday night and it is also the night that my friend J and I totally won Quizzo at the Westville Pub. Okay, our victory was not acknowledged because we got Floridaed out of it - to wit, we were winning by five points (under the euphonious and highly nerdy team name of Pirate Robot Ninja Zombie Monkeys of Deaverview) when we hit the last question, where you have to gamble. Gambling is the only vice on the planet that I have no native taste for, so I blew it, and also, the question was about Adam Sandler movies and I have never seen one. This isn't because I have anything resembling innate good taste, of course, it's just that I never see any movies unless they involve either swords, explosions or large foam rubber monsters (with extra special bonus points for all three.) J actually got the question right but we chickened out and only bet those disposable five points, which allowed two other teams to surge ahead of us and win, which was a total drag, since I was kind of counting on that $50 bar tab to pay ours. Alas. Nevertheless, not bad for a team of two - three at the very end when C joined us.
We were at the bar because young M went AWOL for almost 24 hours and I freaked out and poor J called me at the exact wrong time and thus got roped into the Finding Young M game. Naturally, young M was totally fine and camping, which I apparently was supposed to figure out from his terse and to the point phone call on Thursday night: "Mom, do we have a tent I can use?" "Not really. There are like five tents but the poles are all scrambled and confused." "Okay, thanks." You see, using my magical Mom mind reading abilities, it should have been perfectly clear that what that meant was: "I'm going camping with N and a bunch of other guys up near the Candler/Pisgah end of the Parkway. I'll call you tomorrow night." Young M, all injured innocence, has no idea how I could have been confused. Yeah. Teenagers are a joy, are they not? Such a joy. Mental note: drink more.
However, none of this is why I'm blogging right now at 2 in the fucking morning when, jesus, I should really go to bed since I think I'm going shopping with my mother in the morning and also I just got not so good news about my aunt the Queen of Bohemia which might mean an unfun trip up to NYC in the very near future and yargh. Partly because of all this excitement, which has led to me being mildly wired, I went on Facebook. I've successfully avoided Facebook up to this point and maintain a purely minimal MySpace presence just to pimp this blog (every so often I get a wild hair and make a feeble effort to pimp this blog for fame, glory and fortune but I actually can't be bothered to try too hard - yeah, yeah, story of my life and all - and thus the Hangover Journals remains mostly undiscovered except for y'all who I know are out there, silently reading and going, jesus, this chick is neurotic.) Anyway, yesterday or the day before, driven by sobriety and boredom and a heat wave, I actually created a Facebook profile. Tonight, I updated it and in the process, went to look at some of my high schools. They only let you claim two high schools on Facebook, which is a pain for those of us who, like me, actually attended three and still managed never to graduate. So I picked Middlesex as one of my two, neatly leaving out Ashley Hall and then I started wandering around to find that, lo, there are people I vaguely remember! Cool!
And there, oh my gods and tiny dancing tentacled horses, is the guy I had an obsessive, gigantic and insane crush on through my tenth grade year. Facebook won't let me look at his profile unless I ask him to be my friend, which is way too overt for my stalker minded self - I mean, I doubt he has fond memories of me: "Hey! Want to be Facebook Friends with the girl who followed you around for an entire school year, who was driven by your presence and malign love spirits to act incrementally even geekier and more ridiculous than she actually is which is saying a lot?"
We did end up making out in a barn at a party, finally, for what may have been the best and possibly even the most erotic hours of my life and then he kindly but firmly informed me that it didn't mean we were dating. He was - probably still is, hell - actually a nice guy. It's just that somehow, your sex life gets set into some kind of odd stone in the middle of high school when you're not looking. Then, before you know it you're falling obsessively in crush with any number of nice guys who will make out with you once and then go, "Um. Not really into this, sorry." That will happen again and again even into your forties. Eeek. Apparently I have great taste in crushes and slightly less great - okay, miserable - taste in relationships.
So there he is, on Facebook. Clearly, I can never go back to Facebook now, unless there's a way to get into his profile without being all blatant and asking him if I can be his friend, which thought makes me cringe in panic. Good lord, Facebook is like high school all over again, isn't it? I feel like I'm walking into a cafeteria and I don't know anyone at any table and everything I'm wearing is just wrong enough to be dreadful. Yeah, I don't much see reliving high school. Even for the big crush of my life.