I have a nemesis. Sure enough, she doesn’t actually know I’m all up in her grill, but I’m obsessed. OBSESSED, I’m telling you.
It’s unhealthy. I know. I talk to my husband about her almost daily, saying “read this!” and “can you believe she said that?” and “who does she think she is?” and he says “OK, Buffy. Don’t get your Guess jeans all up in a bunch.” And then I go and pass a note to my best friend in the hall. And I don’t even look at my nemesis’ locker. Because it’s stupid.
I have to tell you that I’m not the sort of person who is a big bitch. I tend to attribute good intentions to people even after they’ve shat on me, and always think the best. I really do. But when I get hurt? I’m a locomotive of crazy.
And you won’t even believe what my nemesis did to me.
It’s hard for me to say. But…
Yeah see…she doesn’t really know I exist.
I mean she knows who I am. It’s just that she doesn’t care.
I really really hate indifferent nemesises.