Tuesday, May 25, 2004

"Hey all you Pointers, ready for your ten-year highschool reunion?"

So it hasn't been ten years yet since I left highschool, but the ever-so pleasant alumni association has graciously sent invitations to every Lisgar graduate in its 160 billion-year old existence for a massive week-long reunion, one which I would only attend if I were a professional killer.

But why not!?!

Why not revisit those memories of long ago, when you were young and full of hope, and love, and passion, and envy. . . and beer?(that wasn't me, honest) Or play catch-up with all those hugely successful graduates who are now living the yuppie life to the fullest? Why not rub shoulders with former classmates you once thought were so superior to you and show them once and for all what a "winner" you are?

Oh, adolescent awkwardness.
The past always haunts us, doesn't it?! You walk down the old familiar hall to your homeroom, and spot a photo layout labelled 1994. Further down, there's a crowd of people, their faces contorted in what seems to be anguish. As you get closer, you see that they are laughing, hideously, with their hands clutching their bellies, eyes squinting tears, arms squeezing sides. You tap a woman from behind. What are you laughing at, you ask. When she turns, you know the face, but cannot place her because it's as though she has swelled. She takes one look at you and bursts into guffaws. She then points to a picture, a picture of a hideous, loathsome creature with big glasses, an oversized t-shirt, and an expression of a dying groundhog lying helpless by the side of the road, asking you to kill it quickly. That picture...IS YOU!

Alright, so I might be exaggerating. The thing is, going to a highschool reunion for many is like trying to travel back in time to erase the past by replacing it with the present. It's like saying, "Hey everyone, I'm not a loser. I am now ridiculously good-looking. And members of the opposite sex like me a lot." Little do people know, that by parading oneself with the sole intention of showing their new and improved selves to the cool kids, they prove to the world that they are just as loserish as they were ten years ago. And you see, this is what would happen if I go. Yes, I would want them all to know, that I am no longer that dying piece of roadkill with the glasses. I now have social skills, and the ability to converse in full sentences. I speak of cool things, like music and travelling and literature, and I like my martinis shaken, not stirred.

And they will all run away, screaming for dear life.

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