I’m a lovely person. Really.

Tonight, I’m catching up on what’s truly important.

I ate peanut butter toast, the dietary staple that I haven’t consumed in about three weeks. I bet my skin has looked sallow and the sparkle has been missing from my eyes on account of this malnutrition.

I’m watching a new episode of Hoarders, the single greatest TV show ever, with the possible exception of the upcoming Steven Seagal: Lawman.

And I’m checking out Facebook for the first time in about 10 days. I have a few new friend requests. One of them features a photo of a girl I recognize from my sophomore year of high school. I don’t remember this girl being super busty, but evidently she feels that’s her claim to fame now. Her Facebook profile pic is … umm … in profile. And she’s sticking out her … umm … assets.

But, to give her credit, she did include a personalized message with the friend request: “i remember u.”

She didn’t capitalize or spell out the last word, but she did punctuate. Hmm.

My dad once told me that I sure can hold a grudge, and I guess that’s true. Because boobs and syntax aside, the one thing that came to mind when I figured out who this girl was this:

That bitch tried to steal my bike shorts in 1991.

Yes. It’s true.

She transferred to my school in the middle of sophomore year. We were in the same PE class. And I had these really nice bike shorts that I got for my birthday. Because it was the early 90s and bike shorts were cool. And Boob Girl asked me if she could borrow them. Sirens went off in my brain, screaming, “Hell to the no! This new girl cannot be trusted!”

Because she was new. But mostly, she was shifty. But I wasn’t practiced at listening to those important gut reactions. I handed over the shorts.

She kept giving me the runaround about getting them back. Finally, after two weeks, I called her house and told her aunt that I needed my shorts back because I was playing tennis the next day after school and I had to have my shorts. Which was a lie. I didn’t play tennis (which is a story for another day). And I’m pretty sure that most athletes can, you know, be athletic-like in a variety of shorts. But I thought having a deadline was a good thing.

And Boob Girl brought me my shorts the next day. With a scowl and a smirk.

And then she transferred schools. Not because of the shorts, I’m guessing. But really? She was barely a blip on the educational radar of a group of kids who had mostly known each other since kindergarten.

I’m sure that was a tough situation for her. As an adult, I can appreciate that. But my inner 15-year-old is still pissed about the shorts.

I pretty much accept any Facebook friend invitation. However, on this one? I’m going to listen to that voice in my head that tells me that a) nothing positive will come of any affiliation with Boob Girl; and b) my daddy is right – I do hold a grudge.

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