reasons i'm not going to my high school reunion

The self-appointed "committee" keeps spamming me via Facebook and e-mail, so I know it's coming: My ten-year high school reunion, something that in my mind is akin to the ten-year anniversary of my narrow escape from being forced to shank someone in prison.

Granted, I hated them all at the time (or at the very least 85 percent of them), but I stopped caring about them approximately nine years ago and began devoting my energy to more important things, like popping zits and brushing my cat.

Here are the other reasons I'm not going to my high school reunion:

1. I can live without chugging a bottle of champagne, smashing it on the ground, brandishing it like a weapon and screaming, "You're all cunts, all of you! I still hate you all!"

2. What will I wear? If I dress too formally, it will look like I'm trying too hard; if I wear flip-flops and jorts (read: dress how I normally do), everyone will assume I live in a van down by the river; if I wear a simple, casual dress, it won't fit quite right and my black bra will hang out because it always does, and everyone will assume I bought it at Target. And they'll be right -- I will have totally panicked at the last minute, purchased it at Target on my way to the venue and put it on in the parking lot. There is no way to win.

3. I don't remember most of my junior and senior years of high school. Confession: I smoked a lot of pot. But also I'm not sure I want to remember -- I was in a fucked-up relationship with a real sorry excuse for a male human at the time, and I'm afraid returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak, will cause long-dead emotions to rise from their graves like zombies, gnaw my flesh and slurp my brains like spaghetti.

4. Some of my former classmates are going to be fat and ugly now. Some of them are going to be bald; others are going to be wearing mom jeans. Due to excessive tanning, others are going to resemble a leather handbag that was left in the rain, then the sun, and then rediscovered in a dumpster by a homeless lady who uses it to haul around aluminum cans and bits of wadded-up tissue. Still others are going to be smoking hot, and I'll probably want to check out their asses. Do I care who falls into which category? Not especially. I'd much rather use my imagination.

5. I have nothing to say to these people. I haven't seen them in ten years. I don't want to see pictures of their kids. I don't care where they work, if they still live at home, or if they, as sheltered Midwestern kids from the suburbs, tried to make it in the "big city" and either failed or were wildly successful. At this point, it's the same as hearing this shit from some stranger I just met at the grocery store who won't shut the fuck up when all I want to do is go home so I can put my ice cream in the freezer.

6. Facebook. Enough said.