Sometimes coming up with post titles is the hardest part of posting.

I remember most people. I know that doesn’t sound super impressive, but I am good at it. Yesterday while at work, I thought about all of my teachers from preschool to senior year of high school. I remember every one. This morning I thought about how many people I have added on Facebook that don’t remember me. I remember you. I wish I could tell you how many times I’ve been forgotten. Sometimes remembering most people sucks.

I had a rather rough start to my morning. I couldn’t tell you why exactly, but the above was my first statement of the day. Normally I don’t allow my mornings to be consumed by such negative thoughts, but it was as if my walls were no match for the ill setting vibes that slithered there way in. My heart, head, and eyes were all heavy. I wanted to sleep.

By the time I got to work I was starting to shake my funk. I smoked my breakfast and tried to get lost in the radio banter that was going on behind my thoughts. Why do I care so much? Why is it so awful to be forgotten? Isn’t that almost being given the chance to start new? How often in life are you given that option? Cha-ching!

I still don’t like it. But I’m going to deal with it in the only way I know how and that is to make a joke out of it, laugh at it, and like Aj says- “stick it in a metaphorical suitcase that stays under a metaphorical bed somewhere and stuff it way, way down”.

I used to work at a grocery store. I believe I mentioned as much previously, it wasn’t the best job. I didn’t look good in their awkwardly proportioned banana yellow polo shirts. Before those polo shirts though, there were long sleeve, forest green work shirts. These ran big, you couldn’t win. That being said, the time of the green work shirt is when this story takes place.

It was my first year working and I didn’t take it very serious after the first six months. I fucked around on my cellular device a lot no matter where I was, including right in front of the customers at the bagging station. I sucked, I was a teenager. That’s what teenagers do. One evening while I was working, I got a text from someone I had been talking to via MySpace. He was a bit pushy and I didn’t really like that but I liked his taste in music and I suppose if I’m honest, the attention.

I wasn’t sure how he got my number as even then I was pretty hesitant to give it out. I didn’t like people. I liked communicating when it was easy and convenient for me, not them. I liked being able to shut everyone out. I liked doing it without hurting people though so not giving out my cell phone number in the first place just made sense. But he had it and he had texted me. I braced myself. I read the text in front of a couple that smelled like money, I smiled and they looked away.

What are you wearing?

Uhhh… People actually ask this? I hoped he was joking. I decided to try and play along as if he were. I told him I was wearing this months grocery store couture, all Ill fitting and muted color palette. I hit send and waited for a reply. He took what felt like forever. I don’t know why I was so giddy. Around that time I was pretty awkward looking. Any sort of attention drove me mad with excitement.

Haha you’re funny. What are you doing tonight?

Sixteen year old me knew better than to tell him what I was really doing. [“Oh ya know, just sitting around making sure my friend doesn’t hurt herself while she’s getting drunk. Its fun, we sing Disney songs while she pukes.”] I told him I was going to be heading home after work to get some sleep. That my life isn’t that exciting.

You should come over. We can fuck.

I blinked. The couple that smelt of money were paying for their food and making their grand exit. I wanted to roll my eyes for so many reasons, but instead I opted for smiling, big and hard. It felt like something had popped in my head and I was having a fucking melt down. WHAT? SO WE CAN FUCKING DO WHAT?! I was a prude. I kind of still am. that question had just made me so uncomfortable. You want me, a total chubster that is still jailbate to go over your house to do what? Jesus Christ man… I was just trying to listen to some vinyl and talk about some musicians we both like.

Hello? Did you get my last text? Come fuck

WHAT THE FUCK. I turned my phone off. I felt disrespected and as if someone were playing an evil trick on me. Males didn’t find me attractive. Usually it was females and they lived just out of reach. Also, they didn’t talk to me like I was some grocery store whore that would roll over just because someone said she should. I looked at my cashier, I looked at the lack of customers in our line, and I went to go push carts. I was irrationally angry. I wanted to cry.

Flashforward about six years when I start to really try to reach out to people I used to know from different times. Tucked between a brother and sister duo from high school that I’ve kept on my friendslist due to how sweet they both are, is him. Yup, on Facebook I’ve found him again. I contemplate adding him, but think again and move on. I tell no one about him, I try to laugh to myself.

A couple months later of interacting with people that he and I have both managed to befriend, he starts following me on instagram. I let it happen. I don’t block him, I don’t delete him, I don’t make my shit private. After a month of him liking only pictures of me, I message him on Facebook. I don’t at first know what I’m going to say, but then for some reason it clicks.

Do you remember me?

It seems short and simple, nothing overdone or uncomfortable, just a simple question and a fair one I waited patiently for interaction. I didn’t get excited the way I once did.

No. Should I? Don’t I follow you on instagram?
Yeah, you do. You tried to have sex with me via MySpace when I was sixteen.
Haha, no shit. Did it work?
No that’s why I said tried.
Is it going to work this time?
Uhhh no?
Haha just checking.

Ouch. Of course the moment I grow a pair to put this guy in his place its six years later and he doesn’t remember. I didn’t message him again. I didn’t follow him on instagram. I made my account private for a month and hoped that would work as he couldn’t see my shit that way. He fell off the face of my planet and out of my life. Until I start to think of all of the people that exist that are much like him. Maybe they never asked me in such few words to fuck around, but they certainly danced seductively in my head. I haven’t forgotten you. I remember most people. It fucking sucks.

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