Day 45: Apr 12, 2012.
I am swimming in a deluge of memories from school.
A particular memory stands out distinctly. We were trying to see if we could get our white keds muddy enough to look like brown keds. We succeeded, but ended up drenched to the skin, our white uniforms dreadfully transparent in the rain. We got hauled up by the VP for allowing the men on campus to guage our adolescence. Ha.
There was Bhootni Parlor that we opened up at the back of class. Here's a picture of the wonderous beauty the parlor brought to fruition. I'm not in the picture thankfully, must've been up to other ruffian stuff.
Another rather adventurous endeavor by a proprietor of the Bhootni Parlor was the french manicure. This she attempted on me, while we were studying the nuances of Lady Macbeth's despair, with a whitener. Lot's of giggles when girls around started noticing how gruesome the outcome of her attempts were. I got into trouble for that one, Chotto didn't know what to make of my fingernails. She might've laughed later.
A group of boys from the school across the road decided to call themselves the MOB, which, it is rumored, stood for Men Of Balls. In an attempt to be ironical about it, we called ourselves SS, or the Solah Shringar. That never really caught on, of course. Plus, there were eighteen of us, not sixteen, and Atharah Shringar doesn't have the same charm.
Looking back, I'm not entirely sure who I was, or what defined me.
A general disregard for any authority?
A love for embarrasingly bad jokes?
Or at a time and place when everybody else was so concerned with the the way they looked, we really couldn't care less? Not because we didn't like attention attention from the opposite sex, (oh we loved that) but we were too busy causing general mayhem to be concerned with mundane things like clothes and makeup. We were innocents, such impossibly ignorant innocents.
Oh well, the best things end. We can attempt to relive them momentarily, or even make the effort to fly oceans and be together every few years, like we do now. We can still have slumber parties every alternative December and wake up to find a cockroach in our mouth and toothpaste on our eyebrows, and fight over what flavor of Kurkure to buy.
But I miss meeting my best friends every single morning. Now it feels so strange that that could have ever happened.
Proud member of the SS,
SV.
PS: When I was 12, Lacy Banyan was code word for Lesbian. Saying the word vibrations on the phone meant the parents were around, so please change topic.
I am swimming in a deluge of memories from school.
A particular memory stands out distinctly. We were trying to see if we could get our white keds muddy enough to look like brown keds. We succeeded, but ended up drenched to the skin, our white uniforms dreadfully transparent in the rain. We got hauled up by the VP for allowing the men on campus to guage our adolescence. Ha.
There was Bhootni Parlor that we opened up at the back of class. Here's a picture of the wonderous beauty the parlor brought to fruition. I'm not in the picture thankfully, must've been up to other ruffian stuff.
Another rather adventurous endeavor by a proprietor of the Bhootni Parlor was the french manicure. This she attempted on me, while we were studying the nuances of Lady Macbeth's despair, with a whitener. Lot's of giggles when girls around started noticing how gruesome the outcome of her attempts were. I got into trouble for that one, Chotto didn't know what to make of my fingernails. She might've laughed later.
A group of boys from the school across the road decided to call themselves the MOB, which, it is rumored, stood for Men Of Balls. In an attempt to be ironical about it, we called ourselves SS, or the Solah Shringar. That never really caught on, of course. Plus, there were eighteen of us, not sixteen, and Atharah Shringar doesn't have the same charm.
Looking back, I'm not entirely sure who I was, or what defined me.
A general disregard for any authority?
A love for embarrasingly bad jokes?
Or at a time and place when everybody else was so concerned with the the way they looked, we really couldn't care less? Not because we didn't like attention attention from the opposite sex, (oh we loved that) but we were too busy causing general mayhem to be concerned with mundane things like clothes and makeup. We were innocents, such impossibly ignorant innocents.
Oh well, the best things end. We can attempt to relive them momentarily, or even make the effort to fly oceans and be together every few years, like we do now. We can still have slumber parties every alternative December and wake up to find a cockroach in our mouth and toothpaste on our eyebrows, and fight over what flavor of Kurkure to buy.
But I miss meeting my best friends every single morning. Now it feels so strange that that could have ever happened.
Proud member of the SS,
SV.
PS: When I was 12, Lacy Banyan was code word for Lesbian. Saying the word vibrations on the phone meant the parents were around, so please change topic.
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