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The 30-Year Reunion

Every day is a reminder of my impending passing – let’s face it, no one gets out of here alive. I’m not a religious person so I’ve always just assumed that when you go, that’s it. No welcoming bright light or hands of loved ones reaching out to greet you. Bummer.

Yesterday (this was writtin in October,2017) I received an arbitrary white postcard with the words “Save the Date” on the front. Although living in Los Angeles allows me the opportunity to attend some amazing events, the truth is I’m anti-social AF. I flipped over the post card and to my absolute horror I saw the words “30 Year High School Reunion.” Fuck.

Mind you, I’m well aware that I graduated high school in 1987. But this card was just a blatant slap in the face. They could have at least sent one of those fancy boxed invitations - the kind that has a butterfly appear and harp music play upon opening- but instead of harps, a recording of Guns N Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle” would be blasting and a puff of stink weed 80’s marijuana would magically appear in lieu of a butterfly. Now that kind of invite I could appreciate.

But I digress. Like most of us, I still look in the mirror and see that 17 year old chubby girl with low self-esteem and a dark sarcastic streak. So the question remains – am I going to go to my reunion? If so, what will I wear? Do I need to lose 15 lbs. first? Should I tell everyone I invited Post It Notes to impress them?

In the scheme of things, my reunion is right up there with who’s going to win Dancing with the Stars in terms of importance. I have until October to decide, but I’m leaning towards a “yes” and just to fuck with everyone, I might just bring Axl Rose as my plus one.

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