In high school I was such a loser. Not the ugly, geeky, reject table type of loser. Please—as if I wasn’t popular. What I mean is that, in hindsight, I was so fucking cheesy. I was the epitome of the all American girl next door. Long, highlighted blonde hair, flared, jeans, Ugg boots—not to mention I was a star student, captain of the varsity basketball and soccer teams, editor of my school year book, and student council secretary. I even got nominated for prom queen one year. I lost though. (Fucking bitch Heather Bragg. That shit was so rigged.)
What I’m trying to say is, in high school, I could do no wrong. People loved me. I mean yeah I had a bit of a reputation for being a slut, and I might have fucked half the football team by the time I graduated, but in the eyes of everyone who mattered—teachers, parents, coaches—I was perfect.
Aside from sports and fucking, one of the things I was obsessed with as a teenager was newts. I loved those itsy-bitsy, slimy little orange salamanders far more than I did most of my bitch friends. There were always hundreds of them in my backyard, and in springtime my brother and I would go outside and collect them as our pets. We’d put them in glass bowls with some grass and a bit of dirt (so they would feel at home), and a thimble full of milk and some ham (in case they got hungry). We’d give them cool names like Danger and Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and when my mom would come home from work she’d scream and throw them back out into the woods and yell at us for destroying her fine china.
One day, during my senior year of high school, I spotted a newt on my driveway while on the way to school. Deciding to make it my pet for the day, I got into my car, placed the newt on my lap, and drove off. It was slightly difficult to juggle between steering, drinking my coffee, applying mascara, and occasionally stroking the newt’s back to make it feel safe, but I managed quite well for most of the journey. When I finally reached my school parking lot, I leant down to give my newt baby a kiss on its slimy head. Then, BAM! My 1985 puke-green Chrysler plowed into the back of the car in front of me—a milky white Mercedes belonging to the inherently evil and widely feared, Vice Principal Moss.
So obviously this was all the newt’s fault. “I hate your orange guts!” I screamed into the newt’s face. “See what you did, you cute little shit! You’ve ruined everything!” And with that I chucked the asshole out my car window into oncoming traffic. “Burn in hell!” I shouted as his tiny body flew though the air and landed on the pavement.
“What where you thinking?” screamed Vice Principal Moss as she bounded toward me, her tan pumps shaking the ground beneath her. “Are you blind? Where did you learn how to drive?” By this point she had her wrinkly, old person face just inches from mine. Her breath stunk like coffee and vitamins. “Well…?” she continued. I couldn’t speak. She was too furious. She looked like she was about to explode—like there was molten lava building up behind her face and it was about to erupt and spill all over me. Should I tell her about the newt? I wondered. Or would that just make her more mad?
Long story short I had to pay for the damage. Big deal. I had insurance and it was almost worth it just to witness Heinous Bitch Moss’ mental breakdown. And my parents weren’t even that mad. I mean, they were definitely mad, but by this point in my driving career I had been in so many accidents and received so many speeding tickets that as long as I hadn’t killed anyone, they were happy.
The sad part was, my perfect reputation was destroyed. No longer was I the star student with the perfect teeth and long, flowing blonde hair. I was “that girl that totaled VP Moss’ Benz.” My good name had been tarnished. Not that it really mattered. A mere two months later my best friend Kelly sucked-off our science teacher and everyone forgot about my little mishap. High school’s good like that.