Funny, isn't it, that I still think of Him with capital letters. That stupid douchebag who has barely even spoken to me since eighth grade still manages to send me into full on panic mode. I've blocked out most memories of him, but I still remember my eighth grade gym teacher forcing me to help him with his rock climbing harness, and him using his usual awful innuendos that seemed to never cease, and me mostly just wanting to cry, and that dumb bitch (I don't use that insult lightly) saying, "if you show him your tits, he'll go away."
It probably wasn't him anyways. He probably wouldn't have been at the house of another guy from our grade. He probably wouldn't be doing some strange provocative salsa dance to the music blaring from the house. He probably wasn't looking at me with that sick gaze that makes me afraid. I didn't have my glasses on, after all, so it probably wasn't him, but I still wanted to run away crying.
I almost wish that he had actually tried something at one point, simply because then I'd have a good reason for hating him, instead of this irrational fear and hatred.
Sorry for the anger, Vicky, my wonderful reader, but I really just wanted to send out a "fuck you" to Mike.
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