The other night, after a nice bout at the local after-hours (reigning Galaga and Mr. Do champion), I came home and fired up the computer to see how many misguided messages I could send on okCupid before sleep overtook me. It’s a fun game I play the next morning, seeing how far my judgement went to hell.
I checked my favorite webcomics, making sure that I was more informed of the lives of the characters of Questionable Content than I was of my own friends, and it was all a whole bunch of happy until I clicked that last tab on the right. Facebook.
I had a message! Hooray! My first thought was which one of my idiot friends was using Facebook instead of email, which is what adults use. Seriously, next person that does that gets de-friended. With a spiked bat. I opened it to find that despite multiple negative responses and comments, my high school class reunion committee was still on my nuts like an overly friendly physical.
Can you send us your current address?
Yes, it’s a nice simple request. Yes, it seems like I’m being a bit dramatic. Yes, I’ve been routinely ignoring friend requests from these chumps for years. Out of a class of 300 something, I only keep contact with a dozen or so, and I’ve been very vocal with my opinion on reunions and those that arrange them and hunt down their lost besties like Dog the Bounty Hunter. On the internet.
So you would think that firstly, the fact that I’ve been declining to give a rat’s dick about anyone outside of those I already know, some hint would have trickled down. Or b of all, when I already said no to the reunion in the first place. I feel like someone is trying to sell me aluminum siding. I mean, why even bother inviting the guy who was a known pissant in high school? Unless the cool kids had a couple more jabs left to get in. And by cool kids I mean band nerds. I was pretty fucking low on the totem pole. Furthermore, I wouldn’t invite me. I can barely stand to be in the same room with myself, which is why I’m sitting down.
I mean, I guess I should feel good about it? Like I’m part of something. But that’s just it, for there to be a re-anything the anything has to happen first, and there was never any fucking union, that much is for sure. The whole thing is just so much obligatory platitude, which is why, after a few seconds of deliberation on how big the bridge flames were gonna be, I replied.
no thanks. it was real and all, but i honestly want nothing to do with what i don’t already have in my life.
have fun with the reunion.
Uncharacteristically restrained, especially given how absolutely retarded the whole enterprise of a reunion is. Why in fuck would I want to interrupt my action-packed and fulfilling life, take time off of from my job that I effing love, go to stanky-shit Cleveland and blow my hard earned dollars to stand around in a room filled with people for which I can barely even summon up the effort of disdain, while listening to Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again”?
I would be lucky to get out of there without alcohol poisoning.
I honestly feel bad for people that are pumped for the event, for the sportos that packed on the extra ELL BEES, or the folks who, not for lack of trying, can count their sexual partners on one hand, if at all. Most of all, I feel for the sad fucks whose lives have actually not improved since high school.
Which is probably the main reason for not going- I surround myself with vibrant, wide-eyed enthusiasts of life. As a bartender, I get to see burned-out hulks of humanity everyday. If I’m going to bother to remember all those fucks from highschool I barely remember anyway, I’d rather not have more examples of how badly people can fall apart in my head. That type of shit can really bring me down if I think about it too much. Which is why I won’t.
I work in a half hour, and I’m already pretty excited about that, and I’ve got some amazing plans for my night off tomorrow, along with starting a second job in the morning that I get to ride my bike to. Looking at my calender and thinking of all the cool shit I’m doing with myself, I can’t think of how to improve it, barring doing more cool shit. I mean, like, Star Wars cool. I’m an X-wing, bro, and I’m winning. Seems to me that any stroll down memory lane is one giant, depressing step backwards.