The Exact Opposite of Okay(33)
I’ll never forget the quiet venom in his next words.
“Fuck you, Izzy O’Neill.”
6.00 p.m.
So he lost his shit? xo
Ajita texting, obviously.
Ajita, I don’t think Danny has been in full possession of his shit since 2006. But yep. Totally lost it.
This can’t be an easy situation for her to be in, stuck between the two of us. [Actually, who am I kidding? She loves the drama. She feeds on it like a reality-TV-addicted leech.]
You still think he’s behind it? Xo
I have no idea. In fact it’s frightening how few ideas I have. What do you think?
A pause.
I think the boy is stupidly in love with you on account of his terrible taste in women. But no. I don’t think he did it. xo
In fairness, I am starting to feel a little bit bad for asking him in the first place. We’ve been best friends for so long, and yes, he’s harboring an inconvenient crush on me for reasons I cannot begin to understand, and yes, I did accidentally kiss him that one time, and yes, he did see me kiss Carson just a few days later. But surely I know him better than that. Surely he would never set out to hurt me that way.
Doubt creeps in. Did I do the wrong thing in confronting him?
11.04 p.m.
In all the self-loathing and furor, I almost forgot that two other people were sort of dragged down with me on the blog – Vaughan and Carson were collateral damage. Of course, they are not generally subjected to the same level of sexual scrutiny due to their Y chromosomes, but still.
I am essentially a Mother Teresa meets Dalai Lama type figure, so I take it upon myself to reach out to these poor fuckboys and make sure they’re okay. I know, I know. Fully anticipating the Nobel Peace Prize anytime now. I mean, anyone can get shot in the head by the Taliban, but it takes a really big person to text a fuckboy. [I am 113 percent being sarcastic here. I firmly believe Malala should be leader of the free world, and also CEO of Hershey’s because I swear to God peanut butter cups are getting smaller, which is an act of terrorism in itself.]
Text to Vaughan:
Hey. Assume you’ve seen the blog. I have no idea how the person who made it knows so much about what happened that night, but I can only apologize – obviously this is the last thing I wanted to happen. Well, not the LAST. The zombie apocalypse would be worse I think. Anyway. Hope you’re all right.
Facebook message to Carson:
Hey. Assume you’ve seen the blog. I have no idea how the person who made it knows so much about what happened that night, but I can only apologize – obviously this is the last thing I wanted to happen. Well, not the LAST. The zombie apocalypse would be worse I think. So would a ruptured bumhole. Anyway. Hope you’re all right.
As you can see I utilized the copy-paste function on my phone very well [adding the bumhole comment for the second text because I know Carson’s sense of humor is even more vile and misjudged than my own]. You know by now that I am a fan of a shortcut, such as when shaving your legs [nobody cares about anything above your knees], or while performing any other sort of body-hair admin. In fact, I think cutting corners is advisable in almost every physical situation, with the exception of maybe brain surgery.
Because he is by far the superior human being/fuckboy, Carson is the only one who replies.
Yo! Ah, hey now, don’t you worry. This kinda thing doesn’t really bother me. Are you okay, though? Pretty brutal stuff on there, bro. Sorry you gotta deal with it. Lemme know if you need anything.
I am quite touched by this, to the extent where I am willing to overlook him calling me bro.
I’m doing ok. Trying not to let it get to me. Thanks for being awesome about it.
Against all the odds, I go to bed in good snuff. [This is a seventeenth-century term for “happy” which I firmly believe should be reinstated in the modern vernacular. See, I do pay attention in school when it suits me, such as for picking up entertaining slang.]
Tuesday 27 September
10.34 a.m.
Aforementioned good snuffery does not last as long as one might have hoped.
For one thing, we have math first period. Honestly, what was that Pythagoras dude’s problem? Why did he have to ruin the simple triangle for everyone? It’s just downright inconsiderate, is what it is.
I think it is perhaps the repeated usage of the word “hypotenuse” that sends most of the class into a state of deep boredom that can only be relieved by taking the ever-loving piss out of someone. Of course that someone is me on this occasion, due to my unashamed sexploits and generally ludicrous nature that invites piss-taking in all its forms. Thus my new nickname becomes Herpes McWartface. Kids really are not very inventive with their mockery these days.
As a rule, I tend to lean into jokes at my expense, like how you’re supposed to steer into the swerve when you’re driving and lose control, so I marked my homework H McW yesterday and promptly forgot all about it. So when Mr Wong hands us the homework back, he frowns and says, “Who is H McW? Do we have a new student?”
The whole class erupts. Because I am sick in the head, I enjoy the laughs. As a comedian I am perfectly willing to throw my dignity under the bus if it means getting a giggle.
But Mr Wong won’t let it drop and insists I explain the new initials to him. He’s the sort of teacher who quite fancies himself as someone who’s pals with his students, but he doesn’t really pull it off because he is fundamentally not a cool person.