Nothing makes you feel better than seeing former classmates that have all gone to hell.
Yeah, I'm mean. And a little bit hypocritical; I'm sure there are plenty of folks from the Ranch that are better off than I. Nevertheless, at least I can dress myself and hold a job, which is more than I can say for the two girls who walked into my workplace yesterday. They looked like every other overweight hoochie that haunts Rohnert Park. Too-tight clothes, too-short skirt, black hoodie, plucked eyebrows and lipstick that did not stay within the confines of her lips. I treated them respectfully, like any customer, and after a little bit one piped up "Didn't I go to school with you? You know, at Rancho?"
Yes, I replied, I attended that school for a year and a half, or so.
"Yeah, like, you were in Choir."
Yes, I was in choir. She even remembered my name.
I never had a good memory for faces out of context, but I had absolutely no memory of her. At all. I faked it, of course. That's what you do in situations like these.
Oh yeah! Right! At Rancho, yeah. Uh-huh.
It's weird. I guess I was memorable for some reason or another. Maybe 'cause I was the class nerd, or something. I've had people that I haven't seen since kindergarten (I swear it's true) walk up to me and know me by name. ("Remember me? From Mrs. Dale's class?")
But the point is this: I like being more successful than those kids who picked on me back in the day. So there.