You know what I hate about blogging? Before I had a blog I was able to just be my usual dorky self in relative obscurity. Now, whenever I make a complete ass of myself I feel compelled to tell the internet about it. I also hate that today I am apparently the Feed of the Day for something called Feedster, which I hope has only 14 subscribers but with my luck is the hot new craze sweeping the nation and I will be beaming this story directly to all my ex-boyfriends and also that girl from elementary school who (falsely) accused me of killing the second grade hamster. (Well, I was the feed of the day, until I complained about it. Take that, ex-boyfriends! No loser stories for you!)
Anyway, here's the latest thing I have done to earn my Loser Badge. (You know, if there had been a Loser Badge, I would have rocked that Girl Scout thing. Instead of, you know, just eating the cookies.) You guys remember this, right? And how I decided not to do anything about it because that would make me cool? Well, that's exactly what I did. Nothing. I didn't even think about it (much) for the last five months. Until the other day, when I was lying next to a sleeping Mia and unable to fall asleep myself despite having gotten about two hours of sleep the previous night, and then I thought about it and decided it would be a fabulous idea to send an email after all. Because, you know, doing it after six months is a little loser-ish, but waiting the full year really ups the loser quotient. Anyway, before I could stop myself, I did it. I sent an email.
(I am somewhat concerned that you already know about the email because it was sent around in some sort of Loser of the Day email digest, which would be the modern equivalent of someone finding a note you wrote and passing it around to all their friends so they could laugh at you. Hey, was everybody emotionally damaged by junior high, or was that just me?)
I tried to make the email as un-loseriffic as I could. No "hey, let's be friends" or "let's let bygones be bygones" or "please like me again, please, please" but rather just a request to know what the heck had happened, couched in the assumption that I had said or done something stupid. No drama, no accusations, no hurt feelings, so maybe what? A six on the Loser Scale? Keep in mind this is someone who stopped speaking to me with no explanation a year ago. Ok, maybe a seven.
So, you are all dying to know about the response, right? You all want to hear what I did? Hang on; let me get the email so I can quote directly.
Where is it...
Oh, that's right. Now I remember. I never got a response. Nope. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. Just the quiet echoes of laughter coming to me across the internet as my email is forwarded from person to person with the subject line changed to "FW: What a dork!" Ok, I'm only guessing on that last bit, but if you knew me you would know that given my history it is highly likely.
As I see it, there are two possibilities. One: whatever I did was so terrible that it cannot even be mentioned and the mere suggestion of discussing my unconscionable behavior causes one to press one's lips tightly together while looking off to the side in a manner of great woe. Which somehow, I think not. Or Two: I didn't do anything. I'll never get an explanation because there is no explanation to give, other than, obviously, my being a LOSER with a capital LOSER.
(Are you all enjoying how I compensate for my feelings on inadequacy? You can't bother me by calling me a loser because I have beaten you to the punch. I thought you would like it, I did it just for you.)
Anyway, at first I was upset at not getting a response, but I have decided it is really better this way. You see, if I had gotten an answer, the chances are good I would have had to feel bad about something I had done and possibly undertake some introspection (gag) and possibly even (gasp!) apologize (the horror!). This way, I can just go on my merry way secure in the knowledge that I have never done anything wrong in my whole life and also that being dumped doesn't matter as it was obviously important only to me, so ta-da! It is no longer important to me. Isn't it cool how I can just decide that? I'm good that way. And no need to tell me about the Nile, which I know is in Egypt. I mean duh, doesn't everybody learn that in, like, third grade?
So that's it. End of (long, boring, my god could you possibly drag this out any longer?) story. I've embraced my Inner Loser and anybody who doesn't want to be friends with my losey-lose-loser self can, well, apparently make me obsess and stew in my hurt feelings for a year, but then? Then! I will absolutely get over it. Soonish.
And now you may all begin to tell me I am fabulous and entertaining and that you don't care a bit about all the typos in this post caused by my typing the whole thing one-handed while using the other hand to make the Loser Salute on my forehead (so that, you know, if another Loser happens by while I am typing we will be able to identify each other). Or you can skip that part, I don't really care, really, I'll hardly cry at all. Instead you could give me recommendations for a Loser Theme Song. I've always wanted a theme song.