Friends…what are those?

So, I’ve never been good at making friends.

I grew up in a small town, so during school you basicallly hung out with the people you had known your entire life. There wasn’t much thought gone into choosing who you were friends with.

When I got into highschool, we had a “group” and I got invited to group gatherings. Outside of those, however, I didn’t do much socializing.

I ended up dating a guy in high school for two years because I was young and stupid and he had promises of new friends and exciting parties. Well, that went south, and I ended up hanging around because I didn’t want to admit to everyone that I had been wrong, and that he was an asshole, even though he did a multitude of things that I don’t feel like going into. On top of being young and stupid, I was also young and selfish and let him believe that I loved him because I had no where else to turn. A lot of my friends shunned me after we started going out because they hated him.

My best friend, who remains my best friend, but it hundreds of miles away, even sort of pulled away from me, but I pulled away from her as well. She found others to hang out with, I don’t blame her, I wouldn’t have wanted to be around me either.

It was then I started to realize that I was not good at making friends. I made excuses for myself though. Things like:

“Oh, it’s a small town, everyone already knows me and has their ‘idea’ of who I am”

“Everyone hates me”

“Everyone thinks I’m an idiot and is laughing behind my back”

Blah blah blah.

Since then, my best friend and I have definitely reconciled, I am madly in love with a gorgeous gentleman who treats me like a princess, and I am about to move to L.A. to pursue a career in Cinema Makeup.

All that is missing right now is…can we guess kids? That’s right, friends.

Everywhere I’ve lived in the last two years, I’ve tried desperately but always ended up being the third wheel with no invite to the after party.

Sure, I’ve gone to lunch with “the girls” but I sit there in utter dismay as they invite eachother over for parties, to the mall, the movies, etc. No, I’m not just imagining that I’m not invited, or not really wanted.

See my Cherry Poptarts entry for a REAL dialogue between me and some of my aesthetician classmates: http://bloodydiamonds.wordpress.com/2008/02/27/cherry-poptarts-again/

That’s just one of many.

I went to visit lance this past weekend and we had a lot of wedding talk. All I could think of was “How embarrassed will I be when I have to tell my family that I don’t have as many bridesmaids as Lance will have groomsmen?”

It’s so humiliating.

I used to love being a loner, now I’m seeing that it’s not the greatest….

Being a woman….

So, I ran into walmart today. I had to purchase some false eyelashes to put on my seven year old cousin, just to practice my techniques.

I was wearing a gray mini skirt and a hot pink spaghetti strap top and luckily…underwear.

I say luckily underwear because…well you’ll see…

I was looking for the false lashes, thinking to myself “How am I going to tell Lance that I think that I’m pregnant? I mean…I don’t think he’ll be mad, and he’ll definitely want me to keep it. Wht the hell am I going to do? Sue the guy who manufactured my birth control?”

I grab my false lashes and mosey (mosie? mosy?) over to the arts and crafts and I feel this warm wetness between my legs….

It felt like I was getting turned on, that sort of slow wetness you know?

I knew it wasn’t my period, because every month since I first got it when I was eleven it’s been the same, I get cramp for 5-7 days before, horrible cramps. I get super moody, I cry a lot, and ooooo the cramps.

So I look around, no one is in site, so I sneak my finger up my skirt, under my white cotton thong, feel definite gooey warmth, and pull my finger out, in front of my face and voila…

Blood.

Lot’s of it.

At this moment I drop my false lashes onto the nearest shelf (which I hate to do, because I have worked in customer service, and people being too lazy to put their shit away pisses me off too). I start walked briskly out the door to my car.

Mind you I’m wearing a mini skirt, so all I can see in my mind is blood slowly dripping down my legs for all to see.

It didn’t, but you know how paranoia can trick you, and I could have sworn I could feel it going down my thigh.

So I get in my car, and I still have a ton of clothes piled in there from moving, so I find a gray sweater that I hated anyway, put it on my seat, hiked up my skirt, and drove home.

My poor white cotton thong ends up in the trash, and I’m thanking the Big Man that my skirt isn’t ruined and that I didn’t run into any old friends from highschool who wanted to chat.  

Well, Lance and I had a huuuuge, nasty, sweaty fuck fest on Tuesday. I was supposed to get my period on like….it doesn’t matter, sooo…yeah. I have too many friends who got knocked up while they were on the pill. Which explains the pregnancy scare.

I think that was God’s little way of saying “Hah, that’s what you get, now here’s your period in a very public place, I hope you learned your lesson. P.S. Stop yelling my name while you’re orgasming”

Thought you guys would enjoy another embarrassing story after my suicide scare. Letting you all know I’m good now.

That’s the downside of being bipolar, extreme lows, but I’ll deal.

Thank you all for you wonderful comments! Mwah!

-Shelby