What's white and hops and is all over my crotch?

Fast forward to junior high. I mean middle school. I mean 8^th grade.

You already have an idea of how demented I am so this will be a good one. I’ve told this story so many times that I’m sure someone is going to tell me about this one girl…blah blah blah…and then realize ‘Hey, bitch – you’re talking about me!’ So sorry if this one is redundant, but I just had to immortalize it on the WWW. The WWF is no longer taking my calls.

In school I was never really ‘sexy’. Sure, I had little baby boyfriends here and there. To name a few:

Phillip Self – there, I put your last name in finally. Please google search yourself and find this. Love meeee.

Anthony Bloch – please don’t google search yourself. Anthony was a redhead *drool* complete with freckles and an asshole personality, but he was really smart. He asked me to be his girlfriend in 6^th grade to which I reluctantly accepted. Seriously, what are 6^th graders going to do? I didn’t even know what a blow job was until I was faced with one like a million years later. Dad, please don’t ever read this. Remain in denial. I still think it’s a brand of candy. So we ‘dated’ for 2 weeks, which qualified as nothing more than a reason to sit next to each other at lunch and smile awkwardly during class, but not beyond the extent of ‘I just think I sharted in my cross color jean shorts’, but at least my leak can be concealed well past my knee. I had green ones. Anthony had a full orange shirt / short combo. It made my Hypercolor t-shirt blotchy from getting all hot and bothered up in this beeeeatch. I eventually broke up with him for two, no, three, major reasons: 1. dating? In 6^th grade? No. 2. He called me at home. What was I supposed to talk about? 3. We ‘dated’ around Christmas time and he bought me a box of beech-nuts (not even real lifesavers…so cheap) and then flanked it with a balloon that said ‘Merry Xmas’, but confessed to me that he would have preferred to have put a balloon that said ‘I love you’ on it, but his mom wouldn’t let him. Grounds for dumpage.

Carson Dibble – He was apparently all gaga for me, according to my 15 minute girlfriends, so I succumbed at the possibility I may become popular. He also called me at home. Dumped. I would love to find you, Carson. You were super nice throughout high school and were one person I would have liked to have kept in touch with. You taught me what a bong was because I didn’t understand your joke about ‘Billabong’ being a bong created by a guy named Bill. Very clever. Wise beyond your years you were.

Kenny Coleman – My first ‘real’ boyfriend in 10^th grade. He lived in a trailer park, just like Kenny from South Park, which he thought was awesome. Need I say more? And you wore Fila. No one wears Fila anymore / ever. Bless your little heart.

I’m sure there are a couple more boys recessed in my heaping mass of way cooler memories, but I haven’t paid for the last couple therapy sessions. We’ll explore my feelings when I get paid.

Carson-era was 8^th grade. I moved a lot and was always the new, cool girl. Until people got to know me and realized I didn’t quite fit in.  I had braces and a unibrow and a laugh like Eddie Murphy (if you do the right joke it still comes out despite years of learning to suppress my asthmatic displays of joy). Don’t I sound sexy? To be extra cool I would let girls borrow my clothes. One in particular, because she was forward about borrowing / lending. We’ll change her name to preserve her innocence, Shmelsea Shmagen. Shmelsea (rhymes with Shtelsee if you need a context for pronunciation) got around from my limited understanding. But she did, for real. She was the new girl the previous year. I’d lent her my Adidas Sambas – which are still one of the best shoes around, some shirts and, most notably, a pair of cargo jeans that I wore the shit out of if they weren’t in the wash or on Shmelsea’s dirty, dirty ass.

8^th grade is also sex education time. Up to this point in life the only kiss I’d had was during a 31-hour fast in support of some African country while playing truth or dare under the stairs at church. Grody. Grottie. Grotty. Apparently this isn’t really a word. Sound it out – you’ll get it. Grodie. Nope. Still not right. All sex-ed movies are intended to scare the shit out of kids so they don’t bump shit and end up with their genitals looking like the elephant man. It worked on me. I’m the most tentative sexer ever and need a thin layer of plastic between my entire body and partner. Because I don’t want a spray of urine to suddenly hit my face. Or a baby. The particular video we ended up watching was about pubic lice. And your mom.

I got home that afternoon and was convinced I had it. I had been lending out my clothes to a known ho and was wearing the very jeans I mentioned while we viewed my fate. I knew in my tiny little brain that there was an insatiable itch on the brown triangular, unused patch known as ‘my crotch’, so I kept running my fingers through the deepest, darkest jungles of Maria Momez and found it was abound with white, hopping entities. Shit was getting real. All I knew was I had to get rid of them and it had to be kept on the fucking DL. I locked myself in my bathroom and madly scavenged my cupboard looking for something, anything, but nothing seemed abrasive enough to kill vagina fleas so I started thinking what would make me feel sick or ill and ultimately settled on spray deodorant because I thought ‘if it’s bad for the ozone, it’s bad for pubic lice’. So I spray my whole lower half with Right Guard and to my horror, the fleas had exponentially reproduced; the whole thing was white and itchy.

Now I run to my mom’s bathroom freaking out and looking for more shit to douse on my vagina, which is starting to look like a grandfather beard from the Ozarks got trapped in a snow storm. I wet it down, but the deodorant has made the thing completely impermeable. I had been fussing with this shit for over an hour and only got backwards results. After a hissy fit, some crying and contemplating a future in the convent, I start screaming at the top of my lungs for my mom to come upstairs. I have my pants up without a single idea of how to break the news to my mom that her only daughter has the worst case of pubic lice ever contracted and fully realized within a single day. She gets in the bathroom with a look on her face of disappointment and exasperation when she realizes no real shit is going down. My face is paralyzed with sheer terror. I turn my head away in shame and drop my pants to reveal my now gray equilateral patch of sadness. Expecting the worst from her, I find myself completely relieved when all she says is ‘what the fuck is all over your crotch and why does it smell so good?’ A nursing first. She sifted through the tropical equator to find that I had no signs of infestation. I was just mildly moronic.

Well in 9^th I was back to being noticeably awkward and nerdy. BUT I hadn’t contracted any STDs; if I did, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to spread them for a good long time. Go me!