self-afflicted retardation

sometimes i think back to all the retarded things i've done. not bad things, just really, really retarded. things that, if i have to watch when they replay my life for me when i die, i may just have to pretend i'm about to faint from the need to pee just to get out of it. it's bad enough to replay them in my head and sometimes when i'm not sufficiently stressed about other things going on in present day, i remind myself of all the retarded moments with a sour taste in my mouth and the pinched face of chagrin, like i popped a lemon warhead while simultaneously pouring isopropanol on a paper cut.

yes, like the time i cut off that guy in the parking lot at work and leaned on my horn, only to have him come ask me for directions, after which i cried for being so insensitive. and when my best friend and i lip-synched to garbage's "queer" in 9th grade. on viedotape. and you can clearly see one point in our air guitar where one of her long nails got me in the eye and disrupted my headbanging. thankfully that VHS tape has been destroyed... by me. and when we made our neighborhood band when i was 10, and i sang into my stereo and recorded a really bad ballad i wrote. and it's about a girl, cause all i listened to was pearl jam back in the day, and i didn't know girls could sing about guys; i was just trying to fit in with my mix tape. but i'm sure it made me sound like a big lesbo.

and then the flannel days of high school where i thought airwair and moshing made me cool. and all the times i wore skirts with combat boots when i was, oh, about 300 pounds. and before i actually learned to rephrase the thoughts before they come out of my mouth, all the people i said really dorky things to. and i didn't learn that till i was bout 17, so that's a lot of people. but what will i think about when i'm 40, stuff i do now? like watch the oc, and read harry potter with a silent fervor? how i pair sports bras with thin-strap tank tops? how i can't seem to wear anything but jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers or i feel like i have wardrobe-induced menopause? maybe. perhaps i'll still be doing those things with my own silent disdain for them, loving the dichotomy of being both repulsed by, and yet embracing, my inner dork.

anybody want a mix tape?