Leave Me Alone, I Hate You

In the wake of all the winning and losing that elections inevitably bring, I would like to write about the fine art of losing gracefully.

Well, actually, I would like to write about how I know nothing about this fine art. I am a sore loser. I have been a sore loser my whole life, as evidenced by this diary entry from 6th grade:

May 5th, 1982

Today Leslie beat me in a flute challenge in band. I'm better than her. It's the truth. I'm not just saying that. I truly am. I'm going to prove it too! I just don't think I can stand being 2nd best to that bitch! She's so god damn perfect! I can't stand it. She is so flat though, I can see why no boys like her. She's also so scummy. If she would squeeze her hair, we wouldn't have an oil shortage. She also thinks Louise likes her. Ha! Louise thinks she's a pain in the ass! And she is!!! As of now Leslie is not my friend! It's not like she was or ever will be.

At least she's moving soon.

Leslie was my friend. My very good friend, in fact. She was flat-chested, yes, but we were 11 years old -- we were ALL flat chested. While I think it bears noting that I showed an early concern about political issues such as the oil shortage, Leslie's hair was no more or less greasy than my own. And I'm sure that Louise (my older sister) was very fond of the flat chested young flutist.

I took defeat very personally then, and I still do. It's an ugly trait, and part of a lifelong obsession I have with fairness. I'm filled from toe to skull with secret, evil thoughts about everyone who has ever wronged me. Vengeance will be mine, I am convinced.

I keep a list.

No, don't worry, I'm not furiously scribbling names in the back of my copy of Catcher in the Rye --- mine is a mental list. It's an ode to petty injustices. The parties I wasn't invited to, the boys who never called me back. Promotions I never got, and the boss who once threw a dictionary at my head, yelling: "Here! You need this more than I do!" The girl who kissed the boy she SO knew I liked. That asshole who cut me off on the freeway, then gave me the finger. The 19 year old girls wearing $1000 shoes who blatantly litter and giggle when I reprimand them. People who cut in line. Good looking people. People who use "summer" as a verb. People younger than me who are incredibly successful. (yikes, that portion of the list is getting looooong)

You get the picture. Perpetually outraged.

I know, I know. Forgive. Forget. Be a better person. Rise above it all. Hugs not drugs. Blah, blah, blah.

I'm sorry, that's just not how I roll.

I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to right all these wrongs, but I figure it's good to have goals.

Plus, I really was the best damn flute player in the 6th grade band!

Seriously.

I'm not just saying that...

Ask Louise!