Damn you, Samantha.
I never trusted you, and I was right.
But logic has zero ability to defend itself against the deluge of hormones that release during your teenage years.
In particular, there’s that remarkable age range where getting fucked over is magnified by knowing you’re getting fucked over. Then you get “rewarded” with the double bonus of beating yourself up for walking right into the torture chamber.
The only song for me while Samantha held me in her web was “Self Esteem” by The Offspring.
The more you suffer
The more it shows you really care
I played the song on repeat. The lyrics rang true, but minus the sex, which makes the story even sadder.
Samantha had an allure. Perfume laced with baby powder. Hazel eyes that looked directly into your soul. Skirts and pantyhose. Successful parents. She’d talk sports and call out bad jokes. Sam stood out.
I look back now and see that confidence made her attractive; it was a swagger that most girls her age did not possess. And there was the gift of spewing bullshit to a highly receptive audience, too.
I didn’t have much to say to you then, Samantha. I don’t remember a single thing we talked about. But seeing how you could attract a crowd with your illuminating personality was enough to pump my heart into overdrive.
Decades later, I saw you waiting in line at the bakery. The rain was pouring down. And you looked so dimly lit standing in front of the colorful pastries, on the verge of being extinguished. Maybe you recognized me; perhaps you didn’t. But for just a moment, I slipped back into teenage mode and was tempted to hop up on the counter and shout:
I might be dumb but I’m not a dweeb
I’m just a sucker with no self-esteem.
The good news is, I did gather up my self-confidence a mere few days after you fled in your white Grand Am. So what I should have said was, “thank you, Sam.” And thank you, Offspring!
I also should have bought a Linzer tart.
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