The Unfuckables, Part I

I come from a long, proud tradition of ever-so-slightly inbred white trash from a tiny foot-hills community; the sort of environment where people die trying to prove a point with a cross-bow and a washing machine, and everyone's your cousin. I am the genetic result of a series of synaptic mis-fires on the parts of my mother and father. As a very small child, I wasn't without charm, but as the years and chromosomal warfare marched on things...changed. And by "things changed" I mean that I eventually grew to be an awkwardly proportioned lass, not entirely without semblance to a bi-pedal, shaved fetal horse. My nose and ears grew at an astonishing rate, outpaced only by my teeth, which grew not only fast but also in no particular organizational fashion. It was as if my mouth was a dark mauve nightclub that had been furnished by an interior designer with a morbid fixation on broken tombstones. All this awesomeness was complimented further by my mother's insistence on buying nothing but "Jordache" and "L.A. Gear" short-sets for me to wear, and my own aversion to both speaking intelligibly and bathing.
As I entered middle school, my genetic and social shortcomings became painfully clear. At first, I tried to fit in. I feigned allegiance in a top-secret society of Scientists committed to investigating the matrimonial predilections of extra-terrestrials, evidenced by carrying around a green notebook with the words "Alien Information File" written across the front that was full of illustrations of hollow-eyed Roswell rejects wearing wedding gowns and tiaras. I'd wring the grease out of my hair over the shrubs outside my school before I walked in. I wore tasseled black leather loafers with everything; even sweatpants. And yet nothing worked.
I don't remember the exact day I realized that I was not going to be able to integrate with the desirable portion of the student population. But in time, I came into a new strategy for selecting and securing minions of my twisted fantasies. a.k.a. "friends." I simply looked for an obvious physical handicap. It wasn't that I was scoping out gimps and crips per se; more that I would look for something obvious and mockable. If I found it without difficulty in under a minute, then they were a shoo-in. These were the "ones," as in "one minute." The scale only went up to "threes", because I (correctly) figured if it took me more than three minutes to find something wrong with someone, then they were waaaaay out of my league.
The system worked impeccably. By Eighth grade, I had surrounded myself with the most incredible, twisted, macabre, bent and broken vestiges of post-pubescent hormonally tormented humanity imaginable. We were quite the grab-bag of physical and mental deficients. There was morbidly obese Missy from Alaska, chosen for her insanely coarse, white-blonde hair, rampant acne, and inability to speak of anything without relating it first to something Alaskan. She farted frequently, but shyly, and could be seen puttering around the school with tears in her eyes because she never knew she'd done it til she smelled it, and by then it was too late. Next was Cathy-with-the-no-thumbs, the victim of two separate entirely preventable childhood accidents that resulted in the amputation of a digit from each hand. Her cleft-palate, however was congenital. Her parents organized the local "Haunted Barn" attraction every year, which is perhaps why Cathy had a bowl-cut well into the 1990's, which was quite possibly the greatest of all the tragedies that ever befell her. She loved to laugh though, and I can't say that the sound of her warbled, thick-tongued guffaws didn't please me.

Coming next! The action-packed conclusion of The Unfuckables!