I Haven't Seen You Since Highschool. Let's Keep It That Way.

WARNING: Post contains giant, run-on sentences (to the point where incorrect punctuation was used to ensure that the reader's comprehension wouldn't be too severely jeopardized), incoherency in levels of extreme verboseness, and happens to be based off my experience at a local grocery store running into a girl from my grade school, wherein the author was once again, forced to cover up the truth of her past misdeeds to avoid a long lineup in the check out and an earned reputation as a "dumb, crazy, bitch." Just let it be known that I find the former to be inaccurately offensive. This post may contain information that could be used to defame the author's character but tell me your socks don't stink and I'll call you a filthy great snake.

In the post-school world, I'm beginning to realize that there are very specific and annoying things that come with being of an age where it is typical if not assumed that I would be graduated, handed my nifty diploma, and sent off to a University where I'd be surrounded by  the other thousands of recent graduates my age preparing to study Kin (kinesiology), Poly Sci, Psych, or to really aim for indecisive mediocrity, Sociology. 

--That is what I had planned on studying btw. Virtual snaps to all in Soc.--

 Such annoying moments include denouncing Facebook and all its social media imposters in order to avoid the lengthy and repetitive discussions revolving around plans for September University frat parties, college beer nights, profs, class schedules, 'HAWT UNI GUYZ' (which either sounds like some sort of inner sushi confection or an advert for unibrow porn) or Rez* next to which my own experiences fall to the bottom of the 'totem pole of exciting shit.'

*Rez: noun, colloq. Residence  [rez-eh-dance] A colloquial term for dormitories or buildings housing buttloads of young adults who are hormonal, armed with as much money that they could possibly squeeze out of OSAP, and usually have escaped the protective armpit of their parents for the very first time and as such, make up for lost time by getting wasted, denouncing basic hygiene rituals, breaking beds, and trying to live up to full hooligan potential.

I've realized though, that unlike prom where dress and date debacles addressed ad nauseum could just be shut off with my computer and avoided, [because I wasn't going and I would go on to have an anti-prom (the beginning of my epic-clubbing-experiences) where I would proceed to drown my sorrows in alcohol and then forget them entirely with coke (and not the kind that pimps Pepsi) and the following two weeks I was too busy riding the tail end of that lethal-and-stupid-but what-the-fuck-you're-only-young-and-acceptably-dumb-once, fun as hell experience to give a shit] running into people you went to high/middle/grade school with was not only unavoidable and awkward as fuck, but seems to be an essential part of entering adulthood. 

From the number of people asking me about my academic progress on a regular basis, I guess I better start getting cracking and get my life up and running. I mean, personally, I don't plan on straddling two jobs and sweating to get my diploma forever, but try to explain delaying two-plus years of jumping on the post-secondary bandwagon when you run into old classmates on a regular basis who are getting on with their lives and give you the obligatory update on their current schooling and majors and then while their talking, realizing that the street goes both ways and eventually it will be my turn to stumble on about what I've been doing since high school to this person whom I've probably said an accumulative ten words to the entire four years of high school and then I start to sweat because my schooling took the back seat while real life hit me in the face and this person is in front of you and being annoyingly friendly and asking about what I've been up to and where the hell do I even start? 

I mean, I could tell them that I blew grade 12 entirely when my mom left (and they should know that--but wouldn't because we didn't talk all that much anyways because I vanished by the time second semester rolled around) and spent it working and trying and failing to get my grade 12 English credit online. That what I wanted to be my '5 Months of Recuperation' ended up resembling World War 2 due to the sheer scale of verbal gunfights between my grandmother and I; leaving us with quite a few emotional scars, a fractured relationship and me with the adage: Blood is thicker than Shit. That resulted in me jumping wings to Africa. Yes, Africa. And no, I didn't ride a rhinoceros there, you dipshit. I have now mentally left this conversation with a hypothetical, blog-generated person. Because. Ignorance of that magnitude is unacceptable.

I would cover your orfices.

 Or I could tell them about the year I lived with my best friend and proceeded to put myself on the hate list of her entire immediate family. Or basically, everyone who lived in the house. Let's put it down to different values, my opposition to all things related to school, the pitiful excuse for an education system at {censored}Collegiate, and the month of March wherein it finally dawned on me that I was nineteen (Note to self: my birthday's in January) and a multitude of insane things occurred: I  gained a stalker, became a night owl and developed an almost vampiric avoidance of daytime, and fell into a deep passionate love affair with fruity wine, followed by the occasional round of adulterous, earth shattering sex with tequila which was responsible for That One Night where my head made the acquaintance of the wall at the bottom of the stairs and they skipped the frivolities and had a child: a head-shaped dent which was probably the very first thing on the list of why I am not a household favourite and am in fact a recent addition on the 'Bad Influences For Their Daughter (my best friend) List' right below Penthouse ambassador and visual porn king Hugh Hefner and right above the 'Slap Chop' guy Vince Offer whose now turned to selling glorified lint rollers termed 'Stickies' to which he assures will resolve all of your 'shedding pussy' problems. #1, jsyk, being the entire Taliban led by the late Osama bin Laden and #10 being Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street. 

But after I finished explaining all that I don't think this person would care OR believe that this year (yes, 2012/2013) would be the year for promise and shiny diplomas of pure, encapsulated win for Jade. Yes'siree Bob. This year I will be joining the ranks of the forgotten and behind. I am attending a school of alternative learning, a.k.a. a school where I can fast track and shoot my four credits to smithereens in a mere 6 months and boost my average enough to apply and actually get a letter worth reading from the Universities of my choosing. I would assure this old high school chum that I am, in fact, smarter than my credit counseling summary would lead her to believe, am able to comprehend English and the Social Sciences to a degree that deserves more than a grade in the lowest percentile and despite everyone's doubts and disbelief, I CAN attend class on a daily basis and be on time for things. I just have chosen not to in the past.

And by this point, this person of little acquaintance would be ready to bolt in the other direction. Heading home to enjoy the last few days of a carefree summer, maybe looking forward to purchasing a new cardigan to wear on the first day of the second year of University; perhaps all the while thanking God under her breath that she (because it definitely wouldn't be a he) had refused to smoke that bong in the eleventh grade, ultimately avoiding an identical descent into failure, destitution, debilitating inadequacy, and most likely pregnancy because she's probably now convinced I'm a giant slag too. 

That is only IF she hadn't fallen asleep through the entire hour-long spiel.  

Psychotherapeutic-Blogging: The Ten Things That Would Make You Want to Punch Me In The Face If You Knew Me

The irrefutable, undeniably terrible ten trait-like tendencies that I need to squash before I'm thirty:

A/D: But since I acknowledge and recognize them as issues that I currently have and need to work on, by all psychological definitions I am ten steps into recovery and thereby have no lamentable problems to speak of.

A/D II: Psychology can often disprove most of your negative behavior that (to the outside world) are just shitty habits acquired by poor upbringing, lack of common sense, living in a developed country, having the social etiquette of a dish towel, or general ass-hattery by redefining them as "psychological handicaps" for which you cannot be accountable for. 

A/D III: That being said, the following list is therefore null and void when taking into account my mental instability as a result of a fucked up childhood where I had been forced to go into a strict, miltary-esque detention centre known for being a creativity-stifling; knowledge diffusing dungeon of brewing hormonal tension; and a breeding ground for awkwardness, abject humiliation and the torturing of souls.  

A/D IV: If you haven't heard of secondary education I reserve the right to boot you off my island.

A/D V: Yes, my island.

1. Babbling, rambling, and inserting of fabricated bullshit to support one's own beliefs. But all with one's own knowledge which puts her on a completely different logic/rationale playing field than religious zealots like L. (stands for Lame Ass) Ron Hubbard (Scientology nutjob) or Warren Jeffs (who did his bit to ensure that he would get his spot in the celestial kingdom with his 50 wives by being a restrictive, power-trippy, pedophile. Yep Jeffs, good luck with that shit). 

2. Guiltless procrastinator and resident underachiever.

3. Constructing of metaphorical bulwarks to avoid reaching the common social 'checkpoints' critical for healthy human interaction.

A/D: Or my excuse to use 'bulwarks' in my blog post.

3.1. But I do actually have them. See: 1 Day Rule.

4. My fear of the male population.

4.1. Using liqueur as a means of communication with men.

5. The 1 Day Rule - Having no further relationship with men extending a 24 hour period.

5.1. Of course, one must be aware of the benefits of this arrangement. There is no splitting of bank accounts, fighting, adultery, toilet seat debacles, over-sharing, under appreciating, or any other unpleasant accompaniments of relationships that evolve from sharing the space and company of someone else for an extended period of time.

5.1.5. See #4

5.2. My attitude towards relationships should technically be its own category. Especially when my own diagnosis resulted in a spectacularly dumb solution - refer to 4.1

 

6. Belief that I am right 99.8% 90% 85% of the time. Which is apparently a symptom of antisocial personality disorder categorized by inflexibility, justifications, and cognitive distortions as well as "self-perpetuated behavior" including the belief that one's choices are invariably right and good and that other's views are irrelevant.  Meaning I'd rather chew on my own liver than let you be right.

7. Using avoidance and hermatism as a means of coping with stress and dealing with unsolved problems. Or #4.

8. Indecision. Or, the putting off of decision making to avoid having to come to a specific conclusion or to delay having to make choices relevant to my life. Of course this both encompasses and extends beyond the picking of ice cream flavours, choosing daily outfits, weighing one's dinner options, and picking university courses that could determine whether you spend your life picking the seeds out of grapes or being a genuine wine ponce (connoisseur).

9. My occasional dust-up with substances. Or, that time that I blacked out and fell down the stairs. More on this fascinating development never.

10. My ongoing physical and verbal abuse of Time. I am never on it, with it, or in front of it. I mostly like to pretend it doesn't exist and give it a good slapping every so often. Prison and time have their hands down each other's pants and so it is a stipulation of my self-preservation that I avoid both. Time is the shackle that keeps me from fulfilling my true potential and also puts me in the position of becoming ostensibly more psychotic in order to explain my preoccupation with hating it.

Let's just say, like this blog, it makes more sense in my head.