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Kelsey. Becky. Cory. Apparently a cutesy-wutesy name is what Scotty looks for most in a sex partner. (For the record, I hate being called "Jessie," the diminutivization of my name favored by senior citizens and my parents.) The ironic thing is, Scotty doesn’t go by the cutsified version of his own name anymore. At some point this summer, Scotty Glazer died and a sex-machine named "Scott" was born. (It’s no coincidence that Robbie Driscoll was similarly replaced by "Rob" two Augusts ago.) If I had reason to say his name (and I don’t), I know I’d flub up and call him Scotty. I have trouble remembering names of people I don’t know.

I didn’t bother to write about these events right after they happened because I was too preoccupied by the Bubble-Gum Bimbos and Marcus the Genius episodes. Then I busted my ankle. Compared to that triple-whammy tsunami, the aforementioned trials were mere toilet swirlies.

Perspective.

Then I started thinking about the downside to perspective. Perspective basically guarantees that there’s no such thing as a pure emotion. Every emotion is based on how sucky (or not) something is in relation to something else that has already happened. I realized that Hy and Marcus and my ankle wouldn’t be so huge if I had experienced a Hiroshima-size disaster.

Hope’s moving doesn’t even count. I say this only because I remember her reaction to the news. She was upset by it, but she didn’t have a tear-out-your-hair hissy fit like I did. True, she’s more laid-back and go-with-the-flow by nature. But I think the real reason she didn’t act like her life was ending is because she had already experienced what that really meant. Heath’s death gave her perspective, and that made it possible for her to see that things weren’t really as bad as I thought they were.

It kind of makes me wish that the worst thing that will ever happen to me will just hurry up and happen already. That way I could live the rest of my life in bliss, if only because I know how much worse things could be.

the twenty-fifth

We’ve been in six out of eight classes together every day for a month and Marcus will talk to everyone in class except me. Or anyone I associate with. For the latter, I can hardly blame him.

To his credit, Len Levy was the first person in our class to go out of his way to talk to Marcus. I don’t think his motives were all that Samaritan, though. I think Len was threatened by Marcus’s intelligence and was following the Godfather keep-your-enemies-closer philosophy. I don’t know if Marcus is a genius, but he has definitely stunned everyone with his ability to always have the correct answer whenever any teacher calls on him, even if he’s spent the entire class period doodling in his notebook. Regardless, Len and Marcus have become kind of tight in the past few weeks.

At first, I didn’t mean to mooch in on their conversations. I literally couldn’t help hearing them, though. I mean, Marcus is in back of me and Len sits next to me in every class. I was right there. Then I figured that listening to their conversations could have a therapeutic effect on me. I thought that as soon as I found out anything about Marcus, I’d stop being so psychotic about him. The real Marcus—not the reformed rebel/genius I’d created in my hyperactive imagination—would be sure to disappoint. Then I could stop being such a girl and just move on already.

Here, with as few editorial comments as possible, are

The Top 10 Things I’ve Learned about Marcus Flutie from Eavesdropping on His Conversations with Len Levy with One Ear While Sara Buzzes On and On about Nothing in the Other:

10. Marcus was diagnosed with ADD in elementary school. (This helps explain why he is always in motion. He never stops jiggling his foot, drumming his fingers on his desk, twirling and letting go of his tie, and so on.) He thinks this is a bogus condition designed by fascist headshrinkers who want to destroy any spark of individuality and foster conformity at a young age.

9. Marcus thinks the medications that doctors prescribe for his ADD (Ritalin, etc.)