Like most normal, sane people, I had put high school behind me. The worst years of our lives, really, no matter how much you try to sugarcoat it. When the 20th reunion party planners contacted me, I was a little bit alarmed that (a) 20 years had passed and (b) those fucking assholes found me. My first reaction was the same kind of shock and horror I felt when they dumped pigs blood on me at the prom and… No, wait. That wasn’t me. But, still. I sympathized with Carrie in those moments. You get them, girl. You get them for all of us!
Over the course of a few drunken nights at my local bar, the handful of people from high school I still talk to and I hatched various wacky plans to scandalize everyone at the reunion. Show up with a dwarf hooker, for example. Pull some sort of Borat-at-the-fancy-dinner-party shenanigans.
For a few weeks, that lit a fire under me and I put on a smiling face and kept track of the planning and all the while dreamed of doing some terrible thing that would forever scar and ruin the lives of the horrible neo-yuppies that, no doubt, most of my graduating class had become. The more I thought about that, though, the more I realized that I hated everyone at high school way back when, and could imagine nothing but a seething hatred for them now. And, in fact, I had spent the last 20 years actively planning how to kill several of them.
It’s all about disposal of the corpse, you know. One of my little summertime hobbies is to drive around the backroads of north-central West Virginia and stake out potential gravesites. There’s this wonderfully desolate old fire road that connects Elkins, West Virginia with Parsons. Twenty miles of dirt road that weaves through the woods and feels more like some sort of long lost trail to Brigadoon than a road. Not only a safe and secure location to bury a corpse, but you can drive the car right to the gravesite! It doesn’t get better than that, folks.
Anyway…I’m off topic. Where was I? So I decided that it might be best if I did not go to my 20th reunion and just ignored the whole repulsive thing.
Over this last weekend, though, I entered into what we’ll go ahead and call an “alcoholic rage,” and, instead of watching the Star Trek remake yet again, I figured I’d try to be productive and clean out my backup harddrive. Delete those giant gifs of Kristen Bell dancing nude and the pictures of my penis that I took during my last alcoholic rage and get all the files nice and organized. To my drunken delight, I saw that I had been saving every episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, and, as if the hand of God came down and guided me, I clicked on the episode where the gang went to their 20th high school reunion. I realized that, despite my hatred for that period of my life, I would have to go…and I would have to do something awesomely horrible, even though the reality is that the only thing I’ll ever be able to pull off is the enraged insanity of the It’s Always Sunny team. How easy it is for me to see myself in Mac’s shoes here:
Truth is, when the day comes, I’ll probably blow it off. There’s only so much vomit I can choke up and then swallow again. But, every day, I get a nasty letter from Amazon that says I need to update Great Society more frequently or else they’ll cancel the subscription in their Kindle store. (And, yes, I am a hypocrite.)
Since I make approximately 37 cents a month via the Kindle subscription, I take their threats of cancellation very seriously. I’m trying to save up for a pack of Doublemint and I will not allow myself to be so easily thwarted. The problem is that, despite Facebook appearances to the contrary, my life is exceptionally dull, pointless, and uneventful. There’s nothing to write about unless they’re remaking a favorite sci-fi show or I lose my mind and decide to post all those pictures of my penis. So I’ll use the 20th reunion as an excuse to write the occasional article about why I hate everything and everyone and fully plan to attend just so I can psychically lock the doors and set the auditorium on fire.