Bitches From High School

If I don’t have your number, or if I haven’t ‘liked’ anything of yours on Facebook, then I don’t want to know you in my present or my foreseeable future. We are no longer familiar. Unfortunately, that’s the drawback when you call ‘home’ a small town where bitches still be floatin’ around, doing the same shit they were doing in high school, because hey, when you live in a small town in California (within reasonable proximity to the beach), why the hell would you leave? Fair enough, but I’m still going to admire that speck of dust floating the polar opposite direction of you when we intersect in public or elsewhere. I guess that’s part of the reason why home doesn’t feel like home to me anymore: I feel like I’ve just grown out of my surroundings. That’s exactly why you’ll see me swan-diving into the nearest bush or trash can when I recognize someone at Whole Foods, my barre class, or my most dreaded of all social settings: the mall.

I by no means believe that I am better than they are. I just think that my current reality doesn’t quite reflect my baller status (#hoodrich #stillfly).

Tonight, I met up for a coffee (which magically morphed into something alcoholic after we’d decided, “Fuck it, let’s go get a drink”) with someone I actually did want to see: a long-time friend from—you guessed it!—high school. We ditched a cumulative of one month of senior year together to go to Disneyland. She’s one-half of the reason why I was ethnically confused in my teens: she’s my Persian oil heiress; back in the day I used to host random Persians-of-OC gatherings at my house when my dad was away on business (bizarre, I know…there are minorities in Orange County!). We used to go to hookah lounges on school nights, and I’d come over to her fraggle-rockin’ mansion in one of the swankiest neighborhoods around (we used to have our parents drop us off there for Halloween because after they’d run out of king-sized candy bars, they’d just give out money!) for goat cheese and bread. I think her family was impressed (or possibly creeped out?) by how Persian I was without being Persian, and I was a natural hit with her dad because he’d go to Vietnam for business all the time and bring back the treasures of my country…like a moon bear…

We met up tonight and, bless her heart, she told me exactly what I needed to hear: “Hey, you skinny bitch!” Thank God. If I can’t be employed then at least let me be less cottage-cheesy than I was the last time she saw me!

After I recounted my tale of woe, she had two suggestions: 1) find a job on Craigslist and hope the ads aren’t a ruse engineered by some Hannibal Lecter and/or serial rapist; 2) marry rich.

This is Orange County – we might not have much industry here, but we do have a bunch of aging white guys with buttloads of money, many of who (I would bet someone else’s ridiculous fortune) have the yellow plague. You’ll see it all the time at Asians-only spots around town: Asian chicks and their white-as-the-un-driven-snow meal tickets. Gotta get me one of those!

New life plan: marry up in life. If I’m not smart enough to get a job then hopefully I can make myself sexy enough to attract a slowly decomposing millionaire?

Only problem is that I don’t ever plan on reproducing.

What’s a broke bitch to do?

(Please be advised: I’m totally joking. If, God forbid, I ever get married, my base requirement is that my husband has to be so hot it burns my corneas, if nothing else. Money’s no object. Sexy genetics are another thing.)

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