And for the record, I swallow. Why start a job if you're not going to finish it, AM I RIGHT?

Before we get to today's post, a happy Fibromyalgia Awareness Day to one and all! My mom has Fibromyalgia—a really shitty chronic-pain syndrome for which there's no cure—and it's a total fucking drag on her. So, you know, be aware. I SUPPORT YOU, MOM! I support you in the same blog post entitled, "For the record, I swallow. Why start a job if you're not going to finish it, AM I RIGHT?" I am...something to be proud of. Hugs!

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Greetings from the guest bedroom in my parent's house! Or as I call it, "the raped carnage of what used to be my childhood room, now decorated in Ikea furniture, soft pastels and broken dreams." But what's in a name? I have a doctor's appointment at the ass-crack of dawn (read: 9:15) tomorrow (read: today) morning and there's no way in hell I'd make it if I couldn't roll out of bed and directly into my mom's car with a sippy cup full of coffee waiting for me, so here I am. 25 years young. Don't judge me.

I was having dinner tonight with Jill, Anna, Talia and Ruby and we gots-to-talking about my recent post about middle school and specifically Anna gots-to-talking about how she had no idea middle school was so hard for me and how sad it made her. I assured her that save for the occasional whiff of chamomile tea, Clinique "Happy", Stridex pads and Noxema, I rarely—if ever—think about middle school and I swear to Jah I've totally moved on and let go. In fact, that blog post was my way of demonstrating to myself that yes, although wholly traumatic and on par with being Boss #1's tampon five days a month, every month, I can look back on the experience, laugh and know that I'm a better person because of it. CUE HUG! (I swear it was a platonic hug, mom.) (Slash, I don't know. She might have grabbed my ass, who can remember?) (But it was a platonic ass-grabbing.) (DAMNIT! TODAY IS YOUR DAY! I'm sorry. I'll stop with my faux-lesbianism.) (I heart dudes. DIRTY STYLE.) (http://www.nfra.net/default.htm)

We then spent the night drinking wine and reminiscing about wacky high school times and when a party at a certain young man's house was brought up, I suddenly stopped laughing, got quiet and slumped down in my chair. Everyone else went on about what a crazy party he threw and how the cops came and everyone ran and groins were electrocuted trying to climb over the electric fence encircling his house and LOLZ! OH, HIGH SCHOOL! But, eeeeeeeeesh...didn't he die a few years ago?

I couldn't keep it in any longer.

"Um, remember my blog post about middle school?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Well...there was a story I was going to write about because it exemplifies the god-awfulness that was my middle school experience better than any other story I could ever tell, but I didn't think it was appropriate because it involved said party host. And, you know, he tragically died and whatnot."

They pressed me to hear it, so I got out the reserve bottle of Embarrassing Middle School story that I'd been saving—a vintage '96—uncorked it, poured them each a tall glass and by god, they savored it until the very last drop.

"You have to tell that story," they told me.

"I can't tell that story! It makes the kid look like an asshole! And he died!" Jill then made the completely valid point that even assholes die and Ruby suggested I pop in the fail-safe "SCH—" prefix before his name and just go with it. Which sounds like a pretty air-tight plan to me, frankly. So, without further ado, I give you the all-around tragic story of Meg McBlogger and Schmonny Schmuntes. RIP.

Picture it: The year was 1996. The setting? Mrs. Batista's second period 6th grade social studies class at Farhqueer Middle School. It was a breezy and warm May morning and Little Meglet sat at her desk in her powder blue Airwalk sneakers, aqua-marine board shorts and neon yellow Joe Boxer baby tee with nary a training bra to her name (despite the ample need for one), all lost in a thought, as Little Meglets often are. (And if I were a betting woman, I'd bet dollars to donuts that thought pertained to American Girl Dolls and if 11-years-old is too old to brush their hair on a nightly basis—answer: yes—but I'm not and that's not the point. So, let's move on. And in the first-person.)

Mrs. Batista's 6th grade social studies class was made up of about four tables, accommodating approximately six students each, lined up in rows around the class. As fate would have it, Schmonny Schmuntes sat across from me at my table.

One day I was zoning out, half listening to Mrs. Batista and half thinking, "if I had a horse, what would I name him?" or some equally homely, when Schmonny Schmuntes tapped me on the arm and said, "Hey."

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Do you spit or do you swallow?" Hand to god, that's what he asked me.

And I'm going to remind you again that it was 1996. I was 11-years-old. I had no fucking clue what the internet was, nevertheless what it meant to spit or swallow. I just knew that it was probably not Kosher and defiantly going to make me look like a jackass in the end.

"Uhhhh...what?" I asked.

"I said, do you spit or do you swallow?"

I gave him a half-laugh like, HAHAHA, YEP, I'M TOTALLY IN ON THIS JOKE! I JUST CHOOSE NOT TO ANSWER BECAUSE I HAVE FREE-WILL AND IT'S WHAT SEPARATES US FROM THE ANIMALS! OK, BACK TO LEARNING ABOUT NATIVE AMERICANS AND THEIR CRAZY MAIZE! GOOD DAY TO YOU, SIR! and went back to doodling in my notebook.

"HEY! I asked you a question. So you better answer me. Do you spit or do you swallow?"

My eyes darted from him to the clock and seeing that I was struggling, Schmeather Schnaughton aka Schmessica Schmith's best friend and partner in (white trash) (what—who said that?!) crime, of all people, came to my defense and said, "You're disgusting, Schmonny! Leave her alone, she obviously doesn't know what you're talking about!"

Now, that was a good out. That was an out I could have been proud of. An out to tell my grandkids about. I should have taken it. Schmeather Schnaughton was pretty much the most popular girl in our grade and if she told Schmonny to back off, he had to back off. But, desperately wanting to seem like I knew what they were talking about, I jumped in and said, "No, no. I mean, I know what you're talking about, I just don't want to answer you."

"See!" Schmonny told Schmeather, "She knows what I'm talking about! So let her answer! Do you spit or do you swallow?"

I looked at Heather for help and she kind of looked back at me like, "Alright hot-tits; enlighten us." I had to make a choice. Did I spit or did I swallow? And this was a difficult choice, mind you, as I obviously had no earthly idea what the fuck we were talking about. I thought back to a few girls in my neighborhood and how they sometimes spat on the sidewalk after smoking cigarettes and looked really badass doing it, so I haphazardly made my choice.

"I, uh...I spit," I said with a wince.

"OHHHHH, HAHAHAHAH! SHE SPITS! WHAT A SLUT! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHA SHE SPITS!" Schmonny said as he literally extended a chubby little finger and pointed and laughed at me. I turned lobster-red and wanted to crawl out of my skin and die. Schmeather yelled at him for being gross again and he eventually stopped, but the damage had been done. Meg McBlogger spits.

But it gets worse...

That night at dinner when my parents asked me and Becca how our days at school were, still not knowing the fuck anyone was talking about, I said, "Ugh, this kid Schmonny Schmuntes would not leave me alone today in social studies! He kept asking me if I spit or swallow!"

A 16-year-old Becca dropped her fork and shook her head slowly in mortification (not so much for what happened that day at school, but mostly I think for having just said "spit or swallow" in front of my parents in reference to my 11-year-old self) and my mom shrieked, "OH MY GOD! THAT'S DISGUSTING! He can't ask you that! That's foul! Do you even know what that means?!"

"Yeah...I mean, no, yeah, he can't ask me that, I mean it was totally gross, like who asks that, you know?!" I stammered, still not know what in the sick fuck I was supposed to be spitting or swallowing.

But it gets even worse...

A few days later, I was sitting in social studies across from Schmonny, painfully moderating the swallowing of my saliva just to be safe when Mr. Lawson, our school's resident crack-smoking, odd-as-fuck guidance counselor sauntered in and told Mrs. Batista—in front of the entire class, mind you—that he needed to see Meghan McBlogger and Schmonny Schmuntes in his office right now. Yes, that's right: my mom called and told the god damn guidance counselor what happened.

So all three of us—me, Mr. Lawson and Schmonny Schmuntes—proceeded to sit down and spend the next half an hour discussing all of the grossly in-depth reasons why it was so inappropriate was for Schmonny to ask me if I spit or swallow. And that was an eye-opener, to say the least. Then Mr. Lawson asked Schmonny Schmuntes how he'd like it if someone asked his sister if she spits or swallows and no, he wouldn't like that at all. So with that, he was forced to turn to me, look me in the eyes and say, "Meghan McBlogger, I am very sorry that I repeatedly asked you if you spit or swallow. It was inappropriate and I will never do it again." And then we were forced to shake hands. We were forced to shake fucking hands.

But it still gets worse...

Schmonny Schmuntes' punishment wasn't just to picture his sister choking on a hot load of cum, apologize and shake my hand. No, Mr. Lawson went on to inform Schmonny that because of his behavior, he wasn't allowed to go on the big end-of-the-year 6th grade class field trip to the water park; he'd have to stay in the library and study. And let me tell you something: that trip was a big fucking deal. And the fact that a popular kid like Schmonny couldn't go? That was an even bigger fucking deal. And the fact that he couldn't go because he got in trouble for repeatedly asking me if I spit or swallowed? Biggest fucking deal. And a deal that didn't really help me be "cool" or win any "friends" either.

And then he died in a car accident in 2003.

And while the entire community mourned because it was obviously a tragedy, .0000002% of me couldn't help but feel slightly vindicated that the person who caused me so much anxiety over my cum handling technique at the tender age of 5-seconds-old, had died. And for the babillionth time, yes, I am aware that I'm a horrible person.

And now you know.

FIN.