I don't hate you because you're mean; you're mean because I hate you

My friend Emily from high school is visiting me and all we've done so far is talk about everyone we used to know and who got fat and who married a hobbit and who has gone from a tall, elegant, and intelligent high school girl to a tall, elegant, and intelligent investment banker living in Lincoln Park.

Emily keeps up with people from high school. I do not, so mostly, her job is to tell the stories, and mine is to ask about the people I don't like. "Did Gina get fat?" "Is Marsha pregnant yet?" "Did Halie get fat?" "Denise already was fat."

Of course, I care about people's successes too. And all those negative questions aren't about my old friends. They're about people against whom I like to pretend I still harbor a deep adolescent grudge, even if I didn't invent said grudge until college.

Really, my high school experience was a lot less torrid and hormonal than a lot of people's. There was one romantic liason that I got pretty pissed about when it ended, but other than that, I had some friends with whom I shared very little conflict, I didn't get beat up or made fun of, I didn't stress over classes, teacher's liked me even though I never did my homework. I even came out to my parents and took a guy to my prom without a hitch.

As a result, the only way to make reminiscing fun is to invent stories that never happened and then use them to find pleasure in the physical and social decline of the people I shouldn't have liked.

For example, there was this one guy -- we'll call him "Mrad" -- who was a dick, a prick, and a scrotum-lick to every guy he deemed his physical and athletic inferior. But Brad -- I mean Mrad -- never picked on me even though we were in the same gym class. (I guess it helps to be 14 and almost six and a half feet tall.) Nevertheless, even though I was graciously spared his snide comments and smooshes-into-the-locker, I have retroactively invented so many stories during my post-secondary-education daydreams that I have an acute personal interest in Mrad's inevitable Getting-Fat-and-Marrying-a-Bitch. (I would also accept Mrad's Getting-Fat-Going-to-Prison-and-Becoming-a-Bitch.)

But it's all a ruse. High school was an easy nothing. There were actually times that I was so level-headed and drama-free that I thought I was unable to feel emotions. I seriously thought there was something wrong with my brain. But one day, I noticed how distracted and concerned I was about this prospect. I didn't know who to talk to about it, I wanted to see a doctor, and I thought I would never be normal and experience life like other people. I got upset, the Irony Fairy paid a visit, and I was cured.

There's a quick portrait of what I will be indulging in this weekend. If you have never offended me (and especially if we never met in high school) and you believe you may be on my imaginary shit-list, please send a picture of your failure to the e-mail address in the sidebar.