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Memoirs of a poor and horny teenage girl, lol.
I think I’m going to puke. At seventeen it seems like every night around eight I want to throw up. Somewhere on this island my friends are gathering; calling one another and figuring out whose car can fit the most people. I put one foot in front of the other, pacing back and forth over the cat piss drenched indoor-outdoor carpet of our efficiency apartment. My clothes are in the washroom of the complex, waiting for me to put them on so I don’t reek of my mother’s cigarettes.
If they forget me I will be humiliated. If they don’t call it means I am expendable.
After two hours the phone rings. It is late on a school night, but my mother is just glad I will let her get back on the Internet. It would have given a busy signal to my friends had they tried to call while she was online.
The door slams behind me and I make a mad dash for the back door of my apartment building. Sean, the sexiest crack dealer I have ever met, opens his door and shouts, “Hey Betty.”
“Hi.” There is no time for him. I never have and never will do crack.
In the wash room I frantically pull down my stinky jeans and pull on a black mini-skirt, my t-shirt is replaced by a black tank, and the whole time I am looking out the window to make sure the bums that frequent the alley are not playing peek-a-boo. I straighten my hair in the reflection of the glass pane. I have changed from poor and dirty to somewhat normal.
Outside an old Chrysler as big as a whale holds five of my friends. Marc has held a place in the front just for me. I can’t help but be flattered for his attentions, and jump in next to him feeling his warm jeans brush against the outside of my thigh.
The air inside the car smells of pot masked by the scent of swisher sweet.
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