School reunion

Recently, somebody mentioned to me that he had attended his school reunion. I think he is around 200 years old, but he looks like he is only 50 or 55 years old, and I gather that his wife is very happy with him. Underline the very. Anyway, that is completely irrelevant.

He attended his school reunion, and he found it worthwhile and interesting. He said that people have lived whole lives and have real stories to tell. He urged me to go to mine when the opportunity arises. It was a perfectly good suggestion. I have no complaints about it whatsoever. It is a good idea.

However, in my case, I cannot do it. If I did attend, it would be a complete-and-utter unmitigated disaster of epic proportions.

I would have a bunch of guys clustered around me at all times, and a bunch of women shooting venomous glances at me from a distance and fantasizing about me getting run over by a bus. Repeatedly.

In addition, I would inevitably offend the guys clustered around me, because they would remember me, but I would have not the foggiest idea who any of them are. Worse than forgetting their names, they would be like total strangers to me. By accident, I could easily say aloud:

“I think I might be at the wrong school. No, wait, this must be the right school. I remember that block splotch there on the back of that chair over there in the corner. What did you say your name was again?”

And then they would be even more offended. 🤦🏻‍♀️

I can remember that dye-diffusion printers are incorrectly called “dye-sublimation printers”, but I cannot remember anybody from school.

I also do not remember any of the teachers, other than remembering in general that only a small minority of teachers are good people and the rest are delusional control-freaks and child-abusers that fail to realize that giving bad marks to a child is actually a case of giving bad marks to themselves, considering that it is their job and their responsibility to teach children successfully, and any failure to do so is the teacher’s failure (the adult’s failure and fault), not the child’s fault.

Teachers must take responsibility for their own failures if they claim to be mature adults. They must stop blaming children. Blaming children is extremely pathetic behavior. What is next? Blaming babies as well? Yes, I think so. A few teachers have already begun to claim that the destruction of the climate and the failure to create a successful economy are the fault of lazy babies not doing their boring homework. It is always the children’s fault, never the teacher’s fault.

I always received excellent scores (and you can believe it), but I have empathy and sympathy with the many poor bastards that were and are abused by selfish immature teachers. Furthermore, the evil behavior of the majority of teachers is a major part of the explanation of why human society is so severely dysfunctional and hateful. But that is a lot of words. Can we summarize the situation in three words or less? Sure can:

I know, I know, that is six words. I summarized it twice.

To deflect the envious venomous women at the school reunion, I could deliberately make myself look shabby, but I am sure that after considering the plan and reconsidering it, I would end up exclaiming, “Oh, fuck them!!”, and then I would get out my curling iron and heat-protection hair cream.

I think most men do not know how hot curling irons become. My brother certainly did not know until I told him. He replied:

“What? You’re kidding? For real?! No... Really?! Seriously? Wow. Respect, Joyce. Respect.”

I guess I could try harder to not let myself be affected by the other women. I suppose I could limit the number of guys around me by making myself look ratty and putting chocolate on my face as fake dogshit, but if I think about it realistically, I must conclude that this plan is doomed from the start. As soon as one of the women smirks at me, I would become angry and vengeful, and I would go to the bathroom and do a makeover. I would have everything that I need already prepared in a “go bag” on the backseat of my car.

I guess I could resist the temptation by dumping my “go bag” far away at the airport, and so I could dress down and make myself look ordinary at the school reunion, but a bunch of guys would still be clustered around me anyway, because of the way that I talk.

The other women would glare at me from a distance and mutter to themselves:

“She’s not even wearing a skirt, and they’re still fawning over her anyway. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. Men are pigs.”

As if men are only attracted to women in skirts or dresses. As if men are never attracted to any women wearing jeans.

And then I would have to saunter up to one of those bitches and scowl at her and say to her loudly:

“Put on some underwear, you skank!”

And then she would be promptly surrounded by men, and she would silently thank me in her mind.

But in most other cases, both genders at the reunion would continue to be problematic. Some random guy would come up to me and say:

“Joyce! I’m so happy to see you! I see you’re definitely not flat-chested anymore. I --”

And then I would bitch-slap him, and then he would look hurt and say:

“Hey, I was trying to compliment you! I was trying to say that I already thought you were beautiful back when you were flat-chested, and now you’re... well, you know, but I swear I liked you back then as well! Don’t you remember when --”

And then I would bitch-slap him again, even harder this time, in order to distract him from the fact that I remember absolutely nothing about him.

He would complain indignantly, “Hey!! What was that for this time??”

I would point below his chin and say, “Because there’s a bug on your chest.”

He would look down at his chest, and I would bitch-slap him again and say, “The third time’s the charm.”

“What does that even mean?!”

Shrug. 🤷🏻‍♀️ “How should I know? Oh wait, I’ve got it. Good things come in threes.”

And then I would bitch-slap him again, which would undoubtedly cause him to complain again: “What the fuck, Joyce?! That’s four times now! You said good things come in threes! So why did you slap me a fourth time?!?!”

“Your wife doesn’t want you to have a good time with me. I’m doing you a favor, trust me, and ya ain’t no Han Solo anyway, are ya?”

“Are you from the South?!”

“Ya just noticed, didya?”

“Wait a minute...”

And then I would bitch-slap him again to cover up my bad fake accent. And that’d be the end of the conversation, I reckon.

He would stumble away muttering, “Fucking Southerners! No wonder they slap their women all the time. I would too, if I was a Southerner.”

I know exactly what those guys want from me. And I am really not that much of a tomboy. Only a little bit. Nevertheless, this little bit would be more than enough to make their fantasies of marrying a busty female version of themselves rise up from the ashes and fly again just like the phoenix in Harry Potter1, only to be crushed and burned to ashes, again just like the phoenix in Harry Potter2.

Honestly, I wish they would just want to have sex with me, and that’s all. The pressure would be much less. I could just do a classic dead starfish and still get rated ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ (five starfishes out of five; heck, I can do the dead starfish position ten times and still not be too tired to do it again).

If anybody at the reunion asked me, “What is your occupation?”

I would reply, “As if there can be only one? Don’t you mean to ask, what are my six occupations? Because nowadays one normal occupation pays one sixth of the average living costs and employees are talking cattle.”

“So, what are they then?”

I would answer, “I’m a sex-writer.”

Normally, it is bad to say, “I am a...” (an identity), but in this case I would say it anyway, because bad behavior is expected from both staff and students at a school.

“A sex-writer?! But you’re so smart! You could solve the world’s problems!”

In response to that remark, I would knee him/her in the crotch and retort, “You do it then!”

“But I wasn’t born smart like you.”

“Yeah, and I’m disabled, so I can’t do it either.”

“What? How??”

“I’m planning to saw off my arms before the end of this school reunion.”

“How are you going to saw off your last remaining arm when you have only one arm?”

“AHA!! I knew it! You are pretending to be inadequate so that suckers will do your work for you!”

Speaking of those envious venomous women again, if the guys brought their girlfriend or wife along to the reunion, then after the reunion, when they are back home, their girlfriend or wife would be unusually assertive, sexually demanding, and motivated to initiate sex.

So, those guys would end up happy as a result of attending the reunion, but what is in it for me? NOTHING! A big fat nothing at all! And nothing times two is still nothing! Infinity times nothing is also nothing.

So, school reunions are a strict no-can-do for me. Unless it is your school reunion, and you want me to pretend to be your wife...? That I can do, but only if you dress like Han Solo and screw me on a table in front of everybody to show them all how much of a virile badass you are.

And if you chicken out and fail to do it, or if you cannot get it up in front of everybody, then I am allowed to take your balls and perform experiments on them. In writing and notarized. And yes, I am even more intimidating in-person.

“Show me your willy.”

I know it seems laughable online, but trust me, when I deliver that line in-person, even gangsters lose their shit (I have follow-up questions, you see), and I have known quite a few gangsters that have lost their shit and never found it again. Choose wisely.

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