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9/11/06 Good Guys Don't Wear White
"I just tell the truth, man. If anyone takes it personal, then maybe they should". Jake "The Snake" Roberts "Tell your mama and your papa, sometimes good guy don't wear white". The Standells Hey Right off the bat, let me tell you that those real deal bastard heels,
the Grapes of Wrath, beat those two ectomorphic freaks, Mr. Black and
Strugglin', I mean Scufflin' Hillbilly, for the AWA Apex Tag Team belts
last Friday night. It's not like I'm all busting with pride having a true
sense of accomplishment or anything- I hate to have to be the one to tell
you this, but pro wrestling's FIXED- but a lot of people been asking over
the weekend, I figured I wouldn't keep you all in suspense any longer. (NOT ALL BUSTING WITH PRIDE? THEN WHY ARE YOU SITTING THERE IN YOUR BOXER SHORTS WEARING MY FUCKING BELT AROUND YOUR WAIST?) Well, as long as it's here- (YOU GODDAMN MARK. THAT'S MY BELT.) Ahem. As for the rest of the mail bag, (let's hit the ground running this issue)- (YEAH, RUNNING AWAY FROM ME)- -as any sane person would. Anyway, a lot of people wrote in thinking I'd be happy cos Steve Irwin got what I said he'd been asking for, no, not at all, Jesus, I'm so misunderstood. I HATED his "Let's treat these genuinely dangerous as fuck animals like they're not dangerous as fuck" schtick, I thought it appallingly and criminally irresponsible, but I also think he was as genuinely as nice a guy as you'd ever want to meet. Just misguided as hell. And a STINGRAY, what the fuck? (I'm sure that hurt like hell, too- a serrated, poisoned barb in the heart, Jesus) I had a bet going with some guys as to what "Aren't you a beauty- ow, fuck me, mate!" would finally give the chop to our boy Steve, one guy picked snakes, another sharks, I can’t remember what the third guy picked (but it wasn't stingrays, so don't try and say it was- I'm talking to you, you know who you are), I had crocodiles and I was absolutely certain I had the winner, go figure.
Still having computer problems, now the- I don't know, the up down sideways keys are what I call them, the ones at the bottom with arrows on 'em- are barely working, of course this keyboard is so sticky/sodden from the initial spray of a thousand opened beers, you could probably pour a glass of water across it and catch a glass of beer on the other side. Hopefully this is the last NL going out on this old machine, got a new one coming, a Univac Super 900 or something. Went down to Joe's last weekend to order it, it was your typical Bill versus the world ordeal, not because of Joe, but because of the idiots at Dell and Bank of fucking America, but we're all on the same page now and hopefully I'll get my new computer soon.
Al's doing some better, he's not crapping his drawers every five minutes like he was there for a while, he's also a lot more alert and aware, he's come out of that semi-coma he was in, but his memory is pretty much, well, a memory. He doesn't remember my name anymore, or Robby's- he knows he knows us, he just can't recall our names, it's pretty sad. Robby stopped by to watch some of the football game with us Thursday night, oh happy day, Al sat there for at least half an hour without saying a word, then looked around the room and muttered "Three dumbasses sitting in a dumbass house". I couldn't have said it better myself.
A: Man, did you read the latest newsletter? Bill's shopping for Al now
on Friday mornings. - I'll try to fuck another stripper while on drugs soon, it's been kind of slow lately, it's this living at (and not being able to get away from) home thing (which we aren't discussing this issue). I just bring up this change in shopping pattern cos once again I've had to go through this "wow, you're buying Pabst Blue Ribbon, I don't think I've seen anyone buying that in years" - and in yet another aside, when Joe and I were at the 304 show weekend before this one, when he ordered our first two Pabst from the outdoor bartender- a real cutie pie, Joe made the observation but I agree with it whole heartedly, he said she exclaimed "Pabst! My grandmother used to drink that!"- and no, he didn’t ask her what her grandmother was doing tonight, jeez, I know- with a whole new group of checkers (we're back at Kroger, now)- one of whom, Gabby Gus, is going to catch me on the wrong morning, and they’re all pretty much the wrong morning these days, and I'm going to give him my "less talking, more checking and bagging" motivational speech. That, and the back of my fucking hand. Speaking of Kroger's and motivational speeches, holy fuck, I did it again, I'm not going to be fit to go out in public soon. I had my Mom in Kroger the other week, we're walking slowly, oh so slowly, down the aisle, some guy is there standing in the middle of it, about as oblivious as my Mom usually is, yammering away on his cell phone. It wasn't even a "What kind of toilet tissue do we buy again, honey?" type conversation, he was telling his buddy some kind of bullshit tale- I know, pot and kettle here, but I don't type these goddamn things in the middle of Kroger's, do I?- so as I walked past him I said "You need to shut the fuck up". I never meant to say it out loud, I swear, only think it.
It was funny, he gives me this baffled, "I could swear this guy just told me to shut the fuck up" look, then shook his head, and walked away- to the next aisle over where I could hear him resume his inane "Hey dude" conversation, again at the top of his lungs (why, when folks are on their goddamn cell phones in public, are they so compelled to SHOUT?). It occurred to me, very strongly, to walk over there and ram his fucking gourd through one of those plexiglass doors- it was the frozen food aisle- but fortunately, I also realized that that was nut job thinking. Jesus Christ, Billy, just let it go. Because some guy is having a loud, annoying conversation in the middle of a grocery store is really not worth getting worked up over, holy hell, and here I was, briefly, ready to crack some guy's goddamn skull over it. Crazy. And scary. For me, anyway. Part of why I was cranking was cos my Mom and I had just come from the Sheriff's Department where I'd taken her to pay their property taxes. I offered to just do it for her, like it did this time last year when both of them were in the hospital, but no, she had to do it herself. Fine, you know, if it makes her feel better to do it herself then I see it as my job to accommodate her. We finally- finally- get to the front of the line, she gets the amount due from the lady behind the glass, starts to write out the check- and stops. I can see her surreptitiously looking up at the county seal, then back at the check, I see she's just got a "K" down, then realize she can't remember how to spell "Kanawha"- cos she certainly used to be able to. I whisper to her- cos I truly don’t want to embarrass her- how to spell Kanawha, she writes it down, then she stops again, again does the cutting her eyes up at the seal without trying to let on, I see this time she's got the "S" down and stopped. She can't spell Sheriff. Again I whisper to her, she finishes writing the check and we leave. I think the part that bothered me the most about the whole thing was how upset she was. She can damn near set the house ablaze- "oh, did I leave that burner on again, silly me"- and not be fazed in the slightest, but this brain lock up while trying to write a check really chagrinned and embarrassed her- Mom: It was just cos I was rushed. Fuck me running. What's Bill drinking? PBR, and lot's of it. Nuff said. What's Bill been reading? Roddy Piper's (assisted) autobiography, sucked, Slap Happy, this supposed philosophical take on pro wrestling, again, sucked, Drama City by George Pelicanos, he gets good reviews, supposed to be at the forefront of some new noir movement, I don’t see it, he sets his stuff in modern DC, the writing itself was good but I couldn’t get into the story, this whole current gang culture shit just doesn’t interest me.
What's Bill been up to? Joe and I went down to Remedies in Huntington for last weekend's 304 show, even for indie level this fed is shit, Tom (the promoter) tried to get me to work when he saw me in the back, not in your wildest fucking dreams, Tommy boy, I like a lot of the guys who work for him but they can't wrestle for FUCK, ask Joe, there's only about two (Juggz and Shane Storm) guys on his roster who even have a fucking clue. I was talking before the show (he came to me, I was trying to avoid him) with Dr. Green Thumb (it's a pot reference), he introduces me to his wife as "This is the guy who almost killed me", he's the one who called a corner table spot on me in the one show I worked for Tom last September, I wasn't taking it, sorry buddy, but fuck you, I reversed it and he took it wrong- head first, not back first- and apparently got genuinely hurt, he was telling me last week that after he rolled out of the ring that night he passed out, then when he woke up he started throwing up- which is not in the least funny, and I'm genuinely sorry, I had no idea. But this is why goofs like him don’t belong in a wrestling ring. Either they'll hurt themselves (or you, if you're stupid enough to go along with them) trying to do some crazy shit they "saw on TV", or else they'll try calling spots on a real wrestler- and DFZ is a very real wrestler, I didn’t get the hell beat out of me in all those cold, cold training sessions with Bobby Blaze for nothing- and piss him off, and . . . I felt bad, I tried to cover a bit, "Hey, I called reverse, maybe you didn’t hear me", apparently, though, he did hear me, but just didn't want to. According to Doc, we did a double reverse- I sort of remember spinning around in the center of the ring for a bit, I was drunk as Je- more on this later- I was dead drunk, a huge bad on my part, but this show was just such a joke, and people kept shoving beers in my hand all night (as has been mentioned, it was in a bar). Still, getting in a wrestling ring drunk is supremely irresponsible, and I'm an asshole for doing it, no excuses. All I remember for sure is that I wasn't going through that goddamn table, Doc didn't want to either, but you know what, I've found that if you just throw 'em hard enough, they'll go through it whether they want to or not. Okay. Drunk as Jesus. I know it offends some folks and I'm sorry, sincerely. I don't know why I always want to say that, or where the expression comes from, it just came into my head one day, and I continued to use it, like corn loaf, some guy wrote in recently, "What the hell is corn loaf", I really have no idea, again, it just came out of my mouth one time- I don't mean literally, although I'm sure it has at one time or another, I mean the words "corn loaf"- and I've continued to say it to this day. Corn loaf. See?
I don't think Stevie had a speech impediment, I think he was just an imbecile, cos most words he could pronounce semi-normally, but whenever we'd play war (which kids don't play for real anymore, they do it all on video screens, which is why they're all mother fucking chicken chested pot bellied wimps, an unholy combination of flab and scrawn, get off your asses boys and girls and chase one another around the neighborhood with plastic guns- or real guns, I don’t give a fuck, just get out of the damn house), Stevie'd always have us looking out for the "Japaneezers" which would both annoy and amuse the fuck out of me at the same time, once I asked him where his bike was, he said "It was stoleden", he also used to pronounce "Howdy Doody" as Hoody Doody, which didn’t crack me up then as much as recalling it does now, I can just see that badass ghetto puppet Hoody Doody, "Yo, dawgs, whut up, Peanut fuckers?"
Well, as already mentioned, DFZ and Prof Danger went over on Black and Hillbilly and took their titles last Friday night. Great crowd, wish it had been a better match, although everyone at the post show party (and baby, it's good to be the champ, I got absolutely hammered and didn’t pay for beer one, also got my cock hand and ass rubbed, and an offer to go home with someone, but she wasn't my type) said it was great, also saw some folks at the XMCW show last night (Saturday) who said it was a good match, so who knows, maybe it was, I'm just pissed cos it wasn't the match it could have been. First off, the AWA big dog, Gagne, comes in pissing cos his World Heavyweight title match isn't main event. When he finds out there's no way to make it so, he starts cutting shit from our match- instead of quadruple juice, it's now just Danny, shit like that, cos he doesn't want our match to take away form the title match. Man, fuck him. I told everyone else, let’s just agree to whatever he says, then go out and do whatever the fuck we want to, but they wouldn't go along with me. Also, I finally thought I'd found someone with the balls to take the Falcon Death Drop in Black, once again, I live in a fool's paradise, he shows up and his first excuse is "nah, I'm too tough for you guys to do that to me"- he is making a classic mistake, buying into his own hype, first thing he says to the Midnight Express- or, as I call 'em, Bobby and Dennis, nice, NICE guys- is, "Hey, I've got the longest win streak in WV wrestling history"- dude, it’s a WORK, you'd shoot with me one time and I'd kick those already straining knees out from under you so quick you'd get whiplash. I'm not buying that even a little bit, "Hey, if you think I can't put your ass on that table for real . . .", so then he switches gears, now it's not like we couldn't do it to him, he's just way too heavy for that table to support his weight while I climb the turnbuckles to jump down on his big hairy getting on my nerves fast ass. DFZ: Well, lay on it one time, let's just try it. And he walks off. He and Gagne get together and come back to me later, their replacement for the FDD is for Black to put ME on the table and then give me a corkscrew elbow drop off the ring apron. "You okay with that ?" Gagne asks me. "Sure," I say, utterly guileless. There's some people there's no point in arguing with. So, match time, we're out there working, time comes for the spot, he puts me on the table, jumps off the apron to drop his big elbow- and while his big fat ass is in the air, I roll off the table. Fuck him, fuck Gagne, fuck all of 'em. Man, that table EXPLODED when he hit it, when I'm done laughing I start kicking the befuddled fuck- he hit his head on the floor when he landed, gosh, sorry dude, maybe you should have TAKEN THE FUCKING DEATH DROP- he's there squirming in the wreckage, "What the fuck . . . ?" "Quit believing your own goddamn press" (good advice for all of us) I tell him, as I ram him hard, legit, against the ring. So anyway, we win, they lose, GOW are the new fucking champeens. Not sure when or where we're going to defend the belts, APEX being the current mess that it is, next DFZ booking I'm aware of is the inaugural WVWA show in Parkersburg 11/10, when he squares off with Johnny Hard, whoever or whatever he might be, never heard of him myself, probably another Dr. Green Thumb is what I'm thinking, to decide who's gonna be the first WVWA Hardcore Champion. As always, my money's on me. (ON WHO?) Okay, on you. Although you and I are a lot closer to being the same person than we've ever been. (RUB MY FACE IN IT, WHY DON'T YOU?). Okay, I get TONS of letters whenever I go down memory lane, like we did last issue, its easily the most popular segment of this stream of drunkenness spew, so I'll try to do another waltz tonight, but I'm making no promises on how far we go, I'm tired tonight, chilluns, TIRED, being both Bill and DFZ does not make for an easy day- or life. (IF IT WAS EASY, EVERYONE'D DO IT). No, they wouldn't. As for last issue, Joe backed me on all of it, he remembers very well Sally's "blossoming" as he put it, I guess lets hang with the high school days, someone remarked in a recent fan letter that I had to be being overly self effacing in talking about my high school grades reeking cos, because- I'm quoting here, so don't give me any shit- "you are easily one of the brightest, most articulate men on the planet". Jeez, just like the person who couldn't believe our musical invasion of London crashed and burned as thoroughly as it did, you dear sweet folk who believe in me so highly, you touch my heart, swear to God, but truth is I'm a fuck up, for real, and my high school grades were shit. Tenth grade wasn't too bad, I was mesmerized a lot of the year by the hot pants invasion- you couldn't wear that kind of shit to school now if your Dad was the President- but it was killer then, the delectable and wonderfully named Terri Sword, Dave, you know what I'm talking about, Jesus, but by 11th grade I was just bored out of my goddamn mind, I kept wanting to scream at my teachers, "You're telling me shit I already know!", it was simply impossible for my ADHD ass to pay any attention at all. So I turned to beer. One fateful day, Spring of '73, me, Stan, Whitney, Mike, and Jeff (but we called him Rampy for some reason, fuck, it was the '70's) get in Whitney's blue Mustang to go to lunch (open campus, again try to find that these days), can't decide where we want to get something to eat from, Stan- god love/damn his heart- says "Let's just get some beer, then". I'd already done the drunken Bitner thing all over Europe the previous summer, so I'm all for it, the others are ambivalent, but afraid to say no for fear of being taken for pussies . . . and so a course was set (the controls for the heart of the sun) that would lead me to where I sit this minute. Fuck it, it could be worse. Really, it could. We stopped to buy beer at the prosaically named Black Market, where the aging cashier sold a bunch of 16 year old boys their quart beer lunch for forty five cents a pop. Lord help us all, if those weren't the fucking days. Me and Stan got Stroh's, the man's beer, Whitney and Mike (the same Mike who wouldn't make the cut, and so would rat my ass out about the gang bang recounted in issue Motorhead, if I knew then what I know now I'd have put a Stroh's bottle {empty, of course} right upside his goddamn curly head- I'm STILL pissed off about that, that humiliating breakup/slap to the face bothers me to this day, not because I didn't deserve it, but because I absolutely fucking did, cos once again, I FUCKED UP) got Miller's, the preppy fag beer, and Rampy got Old Milwaukee. Not that it mattered, cos he'd always "sneak""- we weren't fooled a bit- off to the bathroom and pour it down the sink. Fuck Rampy, we should've called him Fairy. Goof. Whitney and Mike drank for show, me and Stan drank for real. In less than two months Stan and I went from a quart of Stroh's apiece, to splitting three, to two apiece, to splitting five, to three quarts apiece, and I learned probably the most destructive lesson of my entire life. Drunkenness relieves boredom. Now, you drink three quarts of beer in fifty minutes as a 150 pound sixteen year old and let's see how well YOU do in school. Fortunately, my 6th period that year was French, and me and Mrs. Bryson, we had a pretty good relationship. If my eyes were rolled up in my head she left me alone, and you can't ask any more from a French teacher than that. Of course, I got myself HUGE over at the beginning of the year- Joe knows what's coming, and again, he'll back me on this cos it's TRUE, and hilarious as well- when the entire class had to take this afternoon long standardized nation wide French test, I took it about as seriously as I do most things, I didn't even read the questions, I just colored in my answers- it was one of those slotty, read by old school computer answer sheets- to make drawings, one sheet was this robot thing, another I drew a pair of big tits, another either a space ship or my dick . . . Mrs. Bryson: Are you finished, Guillaume? Really. A month or so later Mrs. Bryson comes into class just fucking gibbering, I've gotten the second highest score in the fucking country, one shy of perfect out of 700 plus questions, Joe (who had been clued in to the gag by this point) and I are in HYSTERICS- yeah, we were dead drunk, but it was still FUNNY. And she pretty much left me alone after that, only called on me when my eyes were open, which was seldom, whatever fucking Hittite I'd spew she'd accept, when I'd bag a test she'd ask me- and again, I remember Joe sitting right there while she did this once, I'm not making a word of this up- "What's wrong, Guillaume, I know you know this material", of course I did, I was second in the entire damn country. I couldn't tell her I was brain damaged drunk nine classes out of ten, so I’d tell her there were problems at home, she'd be sympathetic . . I never legitimately passed a single test in 11th grade French, and still got A's every semester, all on the strength of that drunken, "let's draw some big tits on this stupid test" showing. Don't tell me there's no God, and that he doesn't have a sense of humor.
Jimmy Cline, who sat to Joe's left- we were seated sort of reverse alphabetical- starts going, "Joe's drunk . . . Joe's DRUNK", not to be pissy, he was just fucking amazed. Joe turns to Cline (and for many of the people in that class these were the first words they ever heard Joe speak), and says calmly, not at all belligerent, "Cline, if you don't shut up, I'm gonna beat the mortal fuck out of you". Cline shuts up, I start laughing (as does the rest of the class) and pounding on the table in front of me. Joe slowly turns his gaze on me. "That’s my BOY!" I tell him, and he breaks into the biggest smile I've ever seen from him, to this day. That's my boy. That was sixth period. Seventh period was typing, Joe was in that class with me also, and really, could you pick two worse classes to try and get through drunk than French and typing? To be honest, I don't remember a whole hell of a lot about typing class, other than 80 year old Mrs. Bowers weird ass diction- her and Stevie Shultz had some familial connection somewhere, there's not a doubt in my mind- "Get out your pee-on-cil" put me and Joe on the floor time and time again- and that this is an opportunity to refute all you folks who go, "Oh, you get over on all the girl's you're hot for, don't you?" No, I don’t, not even close, not then, not now, and here's a prime example.
She was a sophomore, a year behind me, and going out with a senior- we saw a lot of that back in the day, I sneered at it as a sophomore and junior myself, then ended up cherry picking some cute sophomore girls as a senior myself, so fuck me, I guess- but I couldn’t believe the guy she was dating, Rick Barnard, who was as vacuous a lump of nothing- the girls thought he was cute but I could never see it, he was a fucking MORON, legit, even if he did have (family) money, and was considered something of a fashion plate, God, like THAT matters when the rubber meets the road, I don't give a fuck in this world how you look in your clothes, all I care about is how you look out of them- as you'd never want to step in. I was talking to her, futilely, in class one day, I still remember, vividly, how frustrated I was- I HATE it when I see some hot woman with someone who doesn't have any idea what he's got, when I know I could be so much better to and for her, but what are you gonna do?- I yelled, "He's fucking STUPID!" A couple days later I'm standing in the hall waiting for Stan to come get me so we can go and power drink some Stroh's quarts, here comes Rick. Rick: I heard you called me stupid. I wasn't much worried about him starting a fight- hell, he might have gotten a hair out of place, he also had pussy- as in being one- written all over him - but one of the minor regrets of my life is that I didn't stove pipe his conceited ass then and there. Bill: Yeah, I did. I don't think that was the response he was expecting- and again, it’s eating me up, why didn't I just DROP his ass while he stood there ruminating like the fucking brain cow he was, if I could go back in time tonight I'd knock him right through that whole line of lockers he was leaned against. However, I didn't, he wracks his bran searching for a witty come back, finally goes- R: Well, don’t say it again. And walks off. I knew the only place he could have heard that I called his retarded ass stupid was from my sweet Cindy, that pissed me off huge, so, I snubbed her from there on out, I retreated to my back row seat next to Joe and Stan, bloodied but unbowed- okay, maybe slightly bowed, I'm telling you, she did a number on even this colossal ego- I'm not sure I ever spoke to her again. Not that I think she even noticed, since she didn't seem to care one bit that Bill Bitner was even in this world. Amazing. How does someone get like that?
White pills and easy living Later Bill
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"We
are crude and sorrowful and superficial- I believe we are lost."
Erich Maria Remarque
Sarah
told me about some Internet betting hall where you could wager on what was
gonna do for Steve, stingray odds were 25 to 1. I'd have placed them a lot
higher- come on, a fucking STINGRAY, I'd have bet he'd have been cut in
half by a thresher shark tail first. So . . he got on my fucking last
nerve, but I'm truly sorry the man's dead, like I say, I think he was a
good guy, 
Lots
of people also wrote in applauding the multitude of photos Joe stuck on
last issue, I agree, and yes, I also hope he continues to do it, but as
I've explained in here a million times, Joe is a force unto himself. I
also agree that Elizabeth Starr was hot as fire before her voluntary
deformity, and don't you just fucking LOVE that one drawing of Ultimate
Captain America, squinty eyed, jut jawed, cowl held on with a fucking
leather strap . . . THAT is Captain America, not the blond, bland pretty
boy he was through much of the 70's and 80's, this guy is gnarled, mean,
and pissed the fuck off, he hates this modern world every bit as much as I
do, he'd just as soon bust you in the goddamn grill as look at you, be you
hero, villain, or some schmuck asking for directions to Hardee's (I got
your goddamn Thickburger RIGHT HERE). You beat your wife, I'm gonna kick
the shit out of your punk ass, oh, you're 60 feet tall, BIG DEAL (he
didn't actually say that, but he should have), you're some humongous green
ass monster out causing trouble on MY beat, I'm gonna punt your fucking
nuts to Cleveland. My fucking hero, straight up. What a great, great
character.
Also
ordered some magical device that will transfer video to DVD, so that means
. . . what it means. How am I paying for all this shit? Let's just say
I've decided to get into the vault and spend some of my ill gotten gains
(crime does pay, swear to God), since I'm beginning to think that fortune
teller who told me I was going to live to be ninety was talking out her
ass.
I've
been shopping for Al on Friday mornings instead of Monday nights for about
a month now, and I know how that must effect you people living vicariously
through this thing-
He
says "What?", not in any challenging kind of way, more like a
"You couldn't have possibly said what I thought I heard " way. I
started to just keep on walking, then I thought "FUCK this
fucker", and turned around and got in his face and said, twice as
mean as the first time "You need to SHUT the FUCK up".
What's
Bill been watching? This Dusty Rhodes DVD set I borrowed from Danny (same
with the wrestling books above), more entertaining than I'd expected it to
be, some of that '70's footage is priceless, old Dust is amazingly agile
and surprisingly charismatic for a lisping, over 300 pond tub of guts, and
the man always could cut a funny, funny promo (if you will). Risky bidness
indeed.
This
talking about odd expressions makes me think of Stevie Shultz, he lived
next door to Ronnie Darnell on 78th Street, moved away a year before we
did, and as has been said before, he's assuredly no relation to Chris, cos
this kid was a stone cold geek and I don't mean in the nerd sense,
although he was that as well, I mean he was a geek in the classic carny
sense, as in, "Wanna see me eat this dog poop?", "No ..
ugh, God, I said NO".
Hoody
Doody. Fuck me, but that's funny.
And
while I think I've mentioned Joe's moment of French class glory in here
before, it won’t hurt to do it again, he'd gone out and gotten hammered
with me one lunch time (in all seriousness, back then I was a terrible
influence on Joe, got him into a lot of shit I don't think he would have
gotten into other wise, not all of it good, fuck, very little of it good,
in truth, but I also was like the only one of my crowd who could see past
his no/seldom talking exterior and realize "this is a bright, funny
guy, we can have a lot of fun together"- and we did, and still do) we
stagger into French class, everyone expected it from me- Bret Sharp's (who
I pin on a regular basis in APEX) aunt, Linda sat right behind us- but not
from Joe. Seriously. Not from JOE.
There
was this girl in our typing class, Cindy Meadows, who was flat out
stunning. Honestly, gorgeous face, fantastic body, I was all about this
girl- and she didn't want a damn thing to do with me. I've been rebuffed
in my life, but very seldom as thoroughly as by this girl, and the worst
thing about it was I couldn't put it off on her- she wasn't a bitch, or
some stupid air head, or anything like that, she was a nice, intelligent,
very good looking young woman who, no matter what I did, had no interest
in me in the slightest.
I
was going to write some more but I'm struggling, remind me to pick up
where we left off- 11th grade, 7th period, typing class. I'll see you all
there, next issue. Don't be late.