And now, the startling conclusion of The Unfuckables:
Holly had a cultivated green streak dyed into the thick hair that framed her face. She wore it parted in the middle like an new-wave Madonna, so as to best display the 9 or so inches of forehead she possessed. This was serious forehead. It was like her skull was wearing a turban...under the skin. Holly's wardrobe consisted mainly of a seemingly endless supply of paint-by-number tee-shirts that usually featured dolphins or kittens. Holly was considered the most likely to "pass" as normal of all of us. When she finally did leave us, it was for a more specific friendship with a pock-marked Motley Crue fan named Amber. Remember, this was the early 90's. It was not at any point in time "cool," "retro" or in any way good to like Motley Crue in the early 90's. This was the decade of shameful creme filling in the Motley Crue hydrox cookie of desirablity.
My 'best' friend was the green-eyed, future shut-in of the lot of us, an aspiring writer named Jamie. She was a mensa-approved genius who never met a bar of soap she liked, or an comic book she didn't. Jamie came from an "Unstable Home;" i.e. her house was carpeted in three solid inches of animal feces and her mom cried all the time. The smell coming off of Jamie was fantastic, horrific, and strangely compelling. She stayed over at my house on one occasion, and removed her shoes while we were playing on the computer downstairs. The smell woke my parents in their upstairs bedroom. I was instructed to either get her to put her shoes back on, or to call her mom and have her picked up.
Tonya was, without irony, the most attractive of the lot, and voluntarily joined our ranks. I couldn't figure out why until it was revealed that, at the then-age of 13, Tonya had electively become experimentally "loose." She also smoked her step-mother's Virginia Slims and would regale me with tales from the trailer park where she lived. I would sit in rapture, like a Bosnian refugee at an all-you-can-eat buffet, demanding that she tell me again about the family of raccoons that lived in the unused bathroom in her single-wide. Why was it unused? Because of the hole in the floor. I really liked that. As an adolescent, it struck me as being eminently practical. It was a ready-made metaphor for my own problem-solving skills. When, through negligence and ignorance, the raccoons of the world eat a hole through the particle-board floor of the toilet of your life, just shut the door and call it a loss. Besides, you can always go outside to take a shit. It's cleaner out there anyway.
Like the sands in the hour-glass, these were the freaks of my life. We more or less kept in touch until High School Graduation, at which point an interminable chorus-line of fetuses had been forcibly removed from the salty killing fields of Tonya's uterus; Missy had returned to Alaska; Jamie had ripened to the point where Haz-Mat units had to be called in to change her panty liners and Cathy still had no thumbs.
Forced by the cruel machinations of gene inheritance to forgo my original career path of "roller skater Miss America Princess," I instead learned to give head like a gay man in county lock-up and with the aid of Miss Clairol, joined the Legion of Undercover Losers. I could be ANYONE AMOUNG YOU. Except for Amber. All of her dreams came true, and she's currently working in the porn industry as "Anal Amber" or some shit.
Fun fact o' the nonce:
Workin' girls in ancient Rome had to, by law, keep their hair dyed blonde. This was because the more successful girls liked to dress nicely and have a walk-about occasionally, and sometimes, they were confused for actual high-class women. This was a problem for some dumb fucking reason. Theoretically, the blonde hair was supposed to be a sort of 'scarlet letter.' The plan back-fired when the upper-class ladies of Rome started dying their hair blonde as a fashion statement. If the whores were doing it, it must be okay, right?
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