28. revenge never ends well. sometimes.

very few people have met Mean Vickie.

it tends to take a lot to get on my bad side or to get a rise out of me - usually i opt for passive aggression, like anonymously tripping bullies down the hall or eating the last cream-puff.

rarely do i resort to violence or yelling or petty revenge, because when i do i either feel guilty or get out-revenged.

this doesn't mean that i never get mad, though.

it just means that i usually bottle things up, and the smallest thing can send that cap flying high and let me get sprayed in the face with my own repressed frustrations.

basically, i can look like a real asshole.

for instance:

1. when i was growing up, my mother became obsessed with the idea of me "reaching my fullest potential" and attending Juilliard or becoming some kind of world-renown violin genius.

as such, she took to forcing me to participate in Mommy-Daughter Practice sessions: 3 or 4 hour-long periods of me practicing my violin under her supervision while suffering through endless shouts, slaps, and rants about why i was a terrible violinist.

they were painful.

neverending.

and afterward i always found myself in ratty shape, eyes blotchy and clothes sopping with sweat and tears.

i was never in the mood for anything apart from locking myself away and gorging donut after donut.

so one day, after a Session, as i was making my way up to my room, and when Annie decided to make some snippy remark about my violin playing, i finally snapped.

hard.

to this day, i can't even remember Annie's exact words.

all i can remember is feeling something in the pit of my stomach explode and spread to every inch of my body, reaching down to my bow hand and forcing it to fling the long, sturdy wood and taut horse-hair down on my sister's arm.

after the quick, loud THWAP of contact, there was a brief moment of stunned silence.

we stared at each other.

i couldn't believe what i had done.

i'd never so much as poked anyone before, let alone tried to actually cause harm.

she started to sob.

i continued to stare.

panic.

our mother rushed in, a worried look on her face.

she saw that my bow was still slightly raised and shaking.

that Annie was in tears, clutching her arm.

she glared at me and turned to hold my sister.

"Was da mattah wiss you, huh?!" she screamed.

i didn't know.

"Why would you do somesing like that?! How could you do somesing like dat?!"

i didn't know the answers to those, either.

all i knew was that Annie was still sobbing, and that i was the one responsible for it.

"Go to yoh room!"

i couldn't move.

the weight of the guilt rooted me to the spot.

"Go to yoh room!"

finally, i started to come to my senses.

i started to turn to leave.

and then i saw it.

between two sobs, Annie took a breather.

looked up at me.

tearless.

she smiled.

winked.

sobbed again.

our mother held her tighter.

just two thoughts went through my mind: the first, BITCH; the second, Well played.

i went upstairs without a word.

2. i've never been in tune with today's flirting methods.

that is, at least, i've never been caught up with my contemporaries.

i'm usually several years behind.

i didn't pick up on the whole "tease your crush" thing til recently, which was why in the 7th grade, when a boy took to tripping me up in the hallway or calling me names or randomly punching or shoving me, i didn't feel flattered.

i felt pissed.

day in and day out i dealt with his taunts.

after several weeks of this, i found my outlet.

in my media and technology class, our teacher assigned us a publishing project where we'd use a story-telling software to write and illustrate a short story.

overestimating the time we had to complete it, i figured i'd use this as an opportunity to let out the demons before actually writing something to turn in.

thus began the telling of Poor, Poor Jimmie - my first-ever short.

i got a little over-involved.

poor, poor Jimmie, i decided, was in such a state because - well - nobody liked him.

he lived alone in a shabby apartment, not even a cat or dog or hamster to keep him company.

when he woke up - late, because he was a lazy-good-for-nothing - he found that he missed the bus to school.

in fact, while waiting on the curb, in the rain, without an umbrella, several passing cars managed to splash copious amounts of gutter-water on him, drenching him from head to toe.

he immediately caught pneumonia.

he needed to get to the hospital, but he didn't have a car.

he started walking.

occasionally, passersby would shake their heads and turn away as, even through the rain, they could tell that he was smelly.

no one helped him.

i can't remember all of the details, but i do remember that at one point, as he tried to cross the street to get to the hospital, he was hit by a bus.

an ambulance picked him up and took him to the hospital.

where nobody visited him.

The End.

by the time i finished the story, and illustrated it, i found out that i had run out of time to write an actual passable one instead.

i was forced to hand in Poor, Poor Jimmie.

for a week or so i was on pins and needles, fully expecting to be sent to a counselor for my dark and dirty work.

but the day the teacher handed the project back, on the very last page i found, "A+ Great writing and illustrations! ...But who is this poor, poor Jimmie?"

i never explained.

3. i have a theory: when you finally come out of the closet, you experience your truest phase of adolescence, no matter how old you actually are.

this theory is intended to justify my brief descent into pettiness.

but.

sometimes women just drive me nuts.

last summer, my ex (then, my girlfriend), a friend, and myself made our way cross-country, in a jeep, to the east coast.

we were in close quarters for a long time.

too close.

we grated each other's nerves.

but the breaking point didn't come until later on.

i drive like a grandma.

the fastest i'm willing to go is typically just 5 above the speed limit.

which wasn't that acceptable to my then-girlfriend.

"Everyone's passing us," she'd say, over and over again, "You can go a little faster, you know."

i chose to ignore this.

seeing as how i could barely drive properly at 5 above, there was no way in hell i was going to up the ante.

plus, given my horrible string of bad luck, there was always the chance i'd be the one to get pulled over.

but she kept urging me to speed up.

"Ugghhh," she'd groan, "We keep getting passsssed."

after what felt like hours of this - after trying to curb my own want for retaliation by inserting teasing or explanatory remarks - i finally caved.

"Fine!" i cried, pressing the accelerator, pushing 15 above.

two seconds later, i saw the red and blue flashing lights in my rearview mirror.

fuck.

i pulled over.

laughed.

Kim laughed nervously in the backseat.

the passenger's seat remained silent.

after the cop gave me the ticket and pulled away, i told the others that i didn't want to hear another word about my slow driving.

"Are you blaming this on ME?" asked my ex.

"YES. Well, not entirely. But at least kind of. A little bit."

she didn't say another word for several hours, but scowled all the way to the hotel.

and then some.

as soon as we unpacked the car and settled into the room, she whipped out her diary and scribbled furiously into it.

undoubtedly, about me.

frustrated, i found my journal.

and silently but angrily wrote, "I HAD FRENCH FRIES FOR DINNER. THEY WERE GOOD. MISSING THEIR SWEET POTATO BRETHREN, THOUGH. OH, MY GOD. SWEET POTATOES."

and so on and so forth.

this, apparently, fanned the flames of her fury, because her scribbles became ever more rushed and heavy and shortly after she threw herself into bed.

i followed suit.

poor Kim was already pretending to be asleep.

[hours later, though, the guilt got the better of me and i apologized.

still.

it was kind of her fault.]