Chapter 1: Snobs

My day, despite it being Friday, was turning out to be complete and utter crap.

And I was pissed.

Excessively so. In fact, if there was an award for the most viciously angry, vein-popping, blue-in-the-face high school student, I'd garner the prize. In fact, I'd be triumphant. I was positively terrifying. The ground quaked in my fury, children shrieked in terror when I passed, and sirens blazed with each passing moment when I approached unsuspecting villages of average population and size. Blood-curling screams echoed through the streets as my fists clenched and--

Okay. I have been known to have my fair bouts of drama. I'm a tad theatrical, to say the least. Spence says I should tone it down a notch. It's worrying the neighbors. It's not my fault the Yansky's bedroom is nearly adjacent to my own in our quaint smushed-together townhouse. I would send them a notice to evacuate their home every other night around seven, when I'm feeling particularly rant-y with the need to blast obnoxiously loud music to release my inner anguish brought on by social, academic, family, and emotional pressures of various kinds, so--

Yeah, I know, theatrical -- I'll deal with it.

Right, moving on. My anger had spawned from an overall hellish day. I suppose I should mention that my goldfish died at 6 AM. Poor Affleck. Why do I continue naming my goldfish? They perish so quickly that I keep swearing to myself to stop naming them and sever the attachment. But I always do. Damon died a few months ago too. I flushed the last seven down to that great septic tank in the sky.

Well, not the sky, obviously. But I'd rather not get into that.

I went through a phase of naming my pets after actors who particularly annoyed me. Only my lovely Black Lab got lucky, as he's named after one I'm actually fond of. Ah, Clark. He's a sweetie -- you'd like him. His eyes aren't really dog's eyes, there's something profoundly deeper there. Mom's always said that he has human eyes, as if he were a man in a past life. When I was little, I used to imagine him as someone influential, like Martin Luther King, Jr. or Mother Theresa. It made me feel pleased and honored. He's aging a bit, but he's strong. There will be no septic tanks in his future for a long, long time.

After I flushed Affleck down my bathroom toilet, things just seemed to go downhill from there. First came the call from Aunt Nora, who would be visiting us from New York in three days' time. I can't stand the woman, quite frankly. She's always stared down upon our family as if we were leeches. It probably stems from her intense dislike of my dad. You'd probably recognize her type. She lives in a posh apartment in the meat-packing district of New York, the kind with shiny marble floors and abstract artwork perched on the walls that you wouldn't understand no matter how hard you squinted. The woman even looks expensive. Aunt Nora wears fur and heels religiously. Even in the summertime, the shorts (rhinestone encrusted, of course) are donned with the strappy heeled sandals and her tight tees usually have a fuzzy fur collar for no apparent reason. I think she looks ridiculous.

When Mom placed the phone back on the receiver after her conversation, her green eyes had been wide with sympathy. She'll be in my room. Of course she'll be in my room. Wonderful. Peachy. She can shriek the next morning of how positively dusty my shelves are, or inquire disdainfully as to why my bedroom walls are smothered with photos of art she cannot understand, and pictures of my own personal heroes, actors and musicians. She'd most likely peruse the contents of my CD collection, and toss my soundtracks, Muse and Coldplay albums, and probably some Zeppelin and Bowie into a cardboard box labeled, "Ghastly-Music-My-Niece-Should-Never-Ever-Listen-To". Next would be the DVDs, the sad, lonely looking pile of films like American Psycho, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Breakfast on Pluto, 28 Days Later, Tim Burton films, and The Departed in a separate box titled "Ghastly-Films-My-Niece-Should-Never-Watch-Because-They're-Too-Violent-Or-Just-Too-Bloody-Strange."

My aunt says things like "ghastly" and "bloody", despite the fact that she herself was born in Connecticut. Her husband, Henry Buford, is English, and she must have picked up the subtle change in accent from him. Uncle Henry's okay. His coats smell too strongly of mothballs, and he doesn't talk much but his heavy wallet keeps his wife happy. He's a pretty mellow guy, for a corporate CEO of a top pharmaceutical company. He once broke his nose in a skiing accident two years in a row. For some reason, this never fails to amuse me. They've been married for fifteen years now, Nora and Henry, but for some reason, I always get the impression that he can't stand to be near her.