Sloppy Firsts Read Online Free PDF Page B

much you dig a gift all depends on the giver? For example, Paul Parlipiano could’ve given me a filthy wad of gum scraped off the bottom of his shoe and it would’ve rocked my world. OH MY GOD! YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE GONE TO ALL THIS TROUBLE FOR LITTLE OL’ ME. DID THIS GUM COME FROM YOUR VERY OWN MOUTH?
     
    On the other end of the spectrum is Scotty. He gave me a rose before homeroom. Though this was a nice gesture, I didn’t feel like carrying it around all day. But I couldn’t just stuff it in my locker, so I was forced to field questions from the Clueless Crew all damn day. Who bought you the flower? Why would he buy you a flower if he didn’t want to go out? Are you going out? Why aren’t you going out?
     
    Maybe I’d be more psyched about the flower if Scotty weren’t currently going by the name "Mike Ockenballz." Referring to each other with double-entendred nicknames has replaced Purple Nurple Pursuit as the latest diversion of choice for Scotty and his friends.
     
    Burke Roy is now "Hugh G. Reckshun."
    Rob Driscoll is now "Heywood Jablomie."
    P. J. Carvello is now "Adolf Oliver Bush."
     
    I’m the only girl who doesn’t think this is the cutest thing ever.
     
    As for the rest of my birthday, it came and went, and Paul Parlipiano did not come within 100 yards, let alone share a sweaty 5x5 closet with me. And there was nary a sign of the Breast Fairy. Maybe she’s holding out for next year, when the combo of mondo boobage and a driver’s license will make me a major man-killer. Figuratively speaking.
     
    No party, either, which was only slightly less depressing than having one would’ve been. My mom bought a carrot cake from a bakery that made the criminal mistake of using plain-vanilla frosting instead of the cream-cheese kind. I wanted to go off on how it would be nice if even the smallest thing went right for me. Cream-cheese frosting could have easily met that need. That isn’t too much to ask for, is it?
     
    But then I saw the way my mom was looking at me. She was feeling sorry for me. I was herlame-ass, loser daughter, whose birthday would never be as sweet as her own sixteenth, or Bethany’s—both of which were celebrated with ahuge catered party for a few dozen of their nearest and dearest friends. What can be more pathetic than that?
     
    I lost the nerve to say something snotty. She and my dad sang "Happy Birthday" and I blew out my candles. I opened up my presents (some CDs, a girlie-girl dress I’m returning, and a new pair of running shoes from Dad). I ate a big piece of that cake and pretended to enjoy it. Then I went to my room and cried as quietly as I could.
     
    By the way, the Clueless Crew gave me a silver charm bracelet. A "16" dangles from one of the links. I guess the idea is that I’ll look down at my wrist and always remember this as the time of my life. That is, unless Brandi was right and I slit it first.
     
    I’m kidding …
     
    Long Duck Dongly Yours, J.
     
    february
     
    the fifth
     
    If Bethany had gone to high school with me, I would’ve hated her, and to her, I would’ve been the dweeby sibling she was too cool to acknowledge in the halls. Thus, our eleven-year age gap is a blessing.
     
    I spent the whole day at the dress shop trying on this satin monstrosity for her wedding. Brides are evil. They are so hell-bent on looking better than everyone else that they pick out bridesmaids’ dresses that no one could possibly look good in. The one I have to wear is yellow ("Maize!"as my sister and mother corrected me at least a bizillion times), strapless, and straight to the floor. I look like a banana in it. Bridesmaid bonus: Once the alterations are done, I’ll have enough leftover material from the bust to make not only a matching handbag, but a whole set of luggage!
     
    So I’m standing in the shop in all my Chiquita splendor when Bethany starts telling me that she doesn’t want me to get my hair cut before the wedding because she wants it to be long