Keep Talkin', You're Makin' Me Famous

I know it is hard to believe it when you look at me now, but I was not always the bangin' biddy you see typing before you. As a struggling baby biddy, I left little to be desired by my fellow peers. To be honest, no one even cared to look my way. Many who graduated from high school in my grade do not even know my name and probably could not pick my face out of a line-up. This anonymity bothered me for a long while. Why didn't anyone say I was finger blasted by Rich Corbin in the gym locker room in 7th grade? Why didn't anyone bother to talk about the fact that I had left my pits un-shaved for a whole month in 8th grade?

A ghost biddy was what I was and what I would continue to be.

As I approached my high school years, I came to embrace this inconspicuous existence. I could fart in a whole classroom full of people and no one would even hear it. I could light up a joint in the middle of biology class and no one would even look my way. It was like being fucking Harry Potter with that fucking invisibility cloak shit. I was on top of the world and no one even knew it!

In all seriousness, my loner-status became a part of my identity, not only as as a person, but even as a writer. I took pride in being the one who is on the outside, looking in. I fancied myself a sort of Henry David Thoreau (but, like, a little cuter and less of a fan of ponds or any other fresh-water bodies). Or perhaps I was more like an Emily Dickinson (but with few social skills). I really grew to love being the judge and not the one being judged... that was really working out well for me.

But then, as quickly as you can say "butt crack," things seemed to change for me recently. All of a sudden, people had something to fucking say. All of a sudden, people started to learn my name for crying out loud! I mean, granted, they learned it wrong. They called me the dreaded: "JuliAWnna." Regardless, they were calling me A name and that is where all the trouble began.

The moment people learn your name, you are absolutely screwed. It is hard to talk about "that person with the hair and the face and the teeth." It is much easier to have a conversation about you when they can identify you. In fact, people need to know very little else about you in order to talk shit. Once they have got that down, the slandering can begin. (Some may think I am being facetious and those who think that are ignorantly living in bliss. I envy your stupidity, I really do).

All it takes is for them to know your name in order to concoct an elaborate story about how you are sleeping with this, that and the other thing. Your favorite color? Your birthday? Your favorite Spice Girl? All of that information is irrelevant when people are bored and there is nothing better on television that month.

Dragging someone's professional reputation through the mud is completely necessary when the gallon of Ben & Jerry's is finished, when you have not had any OKCupid dates lately and when Orange is the New Black is on hiatus (fuck Orange is the New Black, by the way). 

6th grade Jules would have been absolutely thrilled about this new found fame. 6th grade me could be fake sleeping with fucking EVERYONE for all she cared! Color me slutty, as long as they knew my name, I would have been over the fucking moon.

The sad truth of the matter is, there is no story to tell. In the words of Shannon Beador, "The OC is full of secrets but I have nothing to hide." (Instead of the OC, you can insert "Westchester," of course). But actually, my life is as boring, action-less and sex-less as an old granny (and I am not talking about the grannies in the nursing homes... because those old biddies are getting some... more than just some, in fact). But, you know, by all means, talk shit about the stuff that I am NOT doing. Say what you want about my imaginary slutty life. Keep talkin', bitches, you're making this biddy famous.

But do me a small favor? My name is Julianna... it's not fucking JuliAWnna for the love of everything holy.

XOXO,
Jules