She was fucking lame.
And you know how I know she was fucking lame? Because anyone who brings a tuba to show
and tell is fucking lame. I mean, who in their right mind would bring a tuba to class in
hopes of being- somehow- a little more well liked, maybe even get some cool nickname in
hopes of becoming just a teeny tiny bit more popular with her other class mates? I mean
what was she actually thinking? That the huge 4 feet twisted glistening gold shell which
twisted around her thinly sick pale body- which was completely washed out by that hideous
daffy duck bright yellow gown which someone should’ve burned a looooonnngg time ago. So
yes. As I said- that girl was fucking lame.
No one will remember tuba girl unless you also want to remember that hideous bright
saturated dress, and only another girl would remember something like that- to keep their
spirits high. To remember that, “yes- I do have my share of bad hair days and such- but
at least I know, for a fact, I will never be caught dead in something as bright, ugly, and
over toned looking as this one girl back in 3rd grade did. That was just god awful.” I
also suppose I should retract my last statement- I know some boys will remember me also.
They’ll one day ponder on ‘stupid things that look stupid.’ Like most males do in-
Idon’tknowsaytheirteenyears. They’ll be like- “oh yo, remember that girl who brought
a fucking tuba to ‘show ‘n tell’ that time in 3rd grade. It was a century ago, I
know, but still dude... STILL. It was just so fucking lame.” Yeah, I know.
Oh, did I mention that those classmates were 3rd graders by the way. Those Sniffling,
babbling, noes-picking, snot slinging, jumpy, over active, sticky, high pitched laughing,
no good, illiterate, non-appreciative children monkeys! Oh, right- did I fail to mention
that I was that ‘fucking lame girl’? Of course not- because you don’t start off your
own diary by saying-
“Hello, my name is Rebecca Kurt, and I’m fucking lame.”
Seriously. That just hurts your fucking self-esteem.
Now excuse me, diary, I’m going to go try and slit my wrists. Because as you can see,
calling myself fucking lame in my own diary, and in my own head is - -- had just
obliterated the rest of any and all my self esteem...