Imaginary Friends, Pt. IV – Sara

When I was about ten years old, I had little girl, big dreams of one day modeling. One of the only girls near my age in the neighborhood who lived a few houses down from my parent’s told me that there’s no way I could ever model with all of the cuts, bruises, and scars I had all over my slender, tanned legs. She was blonde haired, blue-eyed, taller and skinnier than I – basically had the kind of looks my mother would deem Hitler’s wet dream. Mama had jokes.

This girl, who we’ll call Sara, and I spent quite a lot of time together but none of that time ever went by without her telling me how she was better than me in some way or how much of a crush she had on my brother. *rolls eyes* She already had an agent and if I wanted even a slim chance at modeling, I’d have to strive for unblemished, shaven legs like hers. She would remind me of this while running her manicured hand up and down her pale, smooth leg, even insisting I touch them once or twice. I don’t even think I was shaving yet.

“Uh huh, okay Sara,” I would repeat and nod my head, often trying to change the subject but nonetheless, feeling poorly about the many bicycle and skateboarding accidents that were visible upon my inferior limbs.

After my mother took me to a local modeling agency and I was told I was too short for anything aside from catalog, I decided dancing was more up my ally anyway and those slender legs were no more! From there, I became a cheerleader and practiced both for six years. To this day, I have scars from some of the more severe accidents I had as a child, playing outdoors, I have curves and strong muscles in places I never would have known existed had I not become a dancer, and I wouldn’t change a single thing about any of it. Okay, that’s not true, but my thigh cellulite is irrelevant to this story.

I have no idea what became of Sara – the only thing I know is that she became a mother at a very young age, but we had lost touch by then. I recall my mother often asking why I hung out with her. She probably smelled the bad news from five houses down whereas I know I smelled it but I just wanted to hang out with someone aside from the strange chick three houses down or Memo, Tebo, and Julie at that point.

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Begin Rant

There are very few people that I don’t believe are full of shit. Because of my astute self-awareness, I’m beginning to recognize ulterior motives left and right. In other words, there are manipulative assholes every direction I turn. Now, I understand how absolutely cynical this has initially sounded but in a world such as the one we live in, how is it possible to not be cynical every once in awhile? If you’re not cynical every once in awhile then you’re one of those people I’m speaking of above – full of shit. Oh, what’s that you say? You’re inexperienced? Lucky you.

There are days when I feel like I’m the last real person on this Earth. Everyone is so goddamned disconnected, he or she doesn’t even realize when he or she is that pot calling the kettle black! I’m all about taking responsibility for one’s actions and I’ll be the first to admit I have become disconnected at times – many of those times out of pure will.

This week alone, I can’t count how many times I’ve wanted to wring someone’s neck and shout, “Are you fucking serious?!” It is weeks such as this that render the prospect of becoming a hermit enticingly appealing.

Don’t get me wrong I don’t enjoy feeling this way or sharing this type of shit. It’s negative. And it sucks. But it’s real life. Every goddamned day I am subject to sexism, racism, injustices and the list goes on. When I was five years old, swinging carefree on the playground swing set wishing I was one of the “big girls,” I wish someone would have said something a little more profound than, “Oh, there will come a day when you’re wishing to be young again.” I wish someone would have said, “Enjoy small tits and a curve-less body while you can because one day, those assets are going to be subject to unwelcome scrutiny” or “Oh, you think growing up is cool? It won’t be cool when payday isn’t a direct reflection of how hard you work.” Ya know? I’d call this, “Keepin’ it real with the kids.” I guess it’s a good thing I’m not having children of my own, huh?

And End Rant.