Good thing the links under “Writings” are busted! Otherwise I never would have had to dig around in old folders for old files and stumble across this masterpiece. I swear, sometimes I don’t know me. You can’t pay me enough to read my old journals. Well, yeah you could, but it would be painful. I was soooooooooooo angst-ridden! What a poser!
I have no recollection of writing this but obsessing over sailor pants does sound like something I would do. But I’m pretty sure it’s fiction. I’m not the world’s worst girlfriend. I mean, do you watch The Bachelor? I know, right? I rest my case. (More on The Bachelor later. I’m full-on obsessed!)
Anyway, here’s a blast from a time when sailor pants were all the rage.
Enjoy!
I am the world’s worst girlfriend. Seriously. I love me and I wouldn’t even date me. I do not exhibit any of the traits good girlfriends possess as revered in men’s magazines like extensive knowledge of football, unquenchable desire to give back rubs (and never receive), or large breasts. I even got the shaft from women’s magazines. I do not know how to nor have the inclination to poach a fish and devise a crispy crust for said fish out of stale Rice Krispies and peanut M&Ms or the ability to pick just the right shade of lip gloss to match “my man’s” mood. I won’t use the phrase “my man.” Not ever.
He bares his soul to me and all I can think of is if last season’s sailor pants still fit. I haven’t worn the camel boat neck sweater with the bow on the collar. I think that would look nice with the sailor pants. Boats, sailors, boats, sailors. Get it?
I feel like I’m not me. I’m a girl in a Public Service Announcement. I’m going through the motions, acting out a part. He’s like the director yelling, “Cut I didn’t get quite enough emotion. Can we take it from the second date where you tell me about the time your mother accused you of squirting French’s mustard all over kitchen when you were supposed to be napping?”
Cute story.
No wonder the last person to call me girlfriend was a large Spanish woman in line at the bank who complimented me on my sailor pants. I hope they still fit.
I don’t even like to think about my old diary, in which I would write crazy lies & then leave around for people to find & snoop through. Hows that for some darn metafiction?