There were actually girls jealous of me because my name #1 on the list. 3 men were planning a school shooting that was stopped under 24 hours before 2 boy’s my age and one adult were going to execute there plan. The list of who they wanted to kill first was in order by most hated. I was #1 in big letters. My junior high was already so stuck up that a death list started symbolize some “cool,” status. That was the first time I realized that people are really crazy. Sadly, the after math of that year bothered me more than the events that almost transpired. Being 13 allowed me just enough clearance to by pass the full understandably that some kid and his older accomplices wanted to kill me. My brain could not wrap around it and chose to kind of say, “That’s too much we need six more months to even evoke a possible future drug problem.” Basically, I dodged more than artillery that day.
Motorola HZ720 Elite F…$78.84 Abt Electronics & AppliancesHow at 13 I was a popular kid because of my voice volume and missing fear of embarrassment. I was OK looking but my hair was short brown, tanning beds were still not legal, and the only thing I had going for me physically is a steady clinque product access and boobs that were too much for a 13 years old.
How After the Plan To Kill Me Was Interrupted.
I Was More Angry At PTA Mom’s More Than The Want Be Murderers.
Why I am the best kind of bitch and excuses for my rude behavior. My policy is never to judge someone. As long as your breathing you don’t have to be cool or have a new outfit for clearance. Oh she just called me a pig and stole my textbooks-but it is OK because her mom has a big house and she is living well. NO! If you were labeled as weird, hot, loud, etc. And you hurt or came after me I was usually hurt. I am not saying I didn’t have a meltdown and act like a child who got lost in the mall-I did. But you can cry while beating someone up or making there week very different had they had just said to the friends who wouldn’t tell everyone that I was something that should not be here.
How the Movie Clueless Put Me On Stage-And In a Position for Every Girl In my Grade to Hate Me-Also My Mistakes with taking my anger to far.
Being A Slut and How I dealt with it as a punishment and tried to own it without living the role.
Making my title as bitch at-least be given some of my own style. Bitch Cool-And How Lucky I am that almost dying didn’t affect me mentally for no other reason that God probably saw my forecast for the next few years and gave me a break.
Why I wish I had a filter sometimes in places besides grocery stores, church and anywhere with people around who I know could easily beat my ass, school, work, and well that is it. I can’t control my mouth anywhere else unless the environment calls for otherwise. I am not an animal I just choose to say, “It’s fucking cold.” Rather than, “It’s cold.”
Bimbo Addiction and Accepting that I choose to look textbook stupid while being very smart. I also realize if my GPA was stamped on me it would still be labeled as a tramp stamp.
Apparently, by later explanation; people assume that if they tried to kill me it would take a mine of artillery. The police said they found more metal in my want be killers, “spider man tent, chest, and anywhere his room would acquire that wasn’t too visible,” to arm an attack with 20 men. They were not just hoping for my death but planned others below me. Eerily..Three day’s later I was cast in the yearly school play called, “Gifts,” which was really a sing along for pre teens that was trying to reflect themes from the Clueless movies with a PIG rating. I was cast as the role every girl wanted and now that I look back it’s kind of disturbing. I was SHOPPING GIRL. I had magic credit cards and a cell phone that only parents at the time had. My best friend and I were the only people under 40 with a flip phone. My dad actually got it because he didn’t like the idea of his daughter and her friends going to see Clueless again in their plaid skirts and using a pay phone outside to call in case of an emergency. My dopamine levels that moment I first held that huge flip phone must have been higher than five years later when I would try extras. So I was shopping girl with magical credit cards, a cell phone, a plaid skirt (for the play I had to wear a sweatshirt with hot pink glitter dollars signs to not be to Cheer Horowitz. I was just 13, and Cheer was 16 in the movie and 35 or something in real life.
I loved acting of course and only stopped when the high school drama crowd got a little to weird. Not judging anyone I might frighten someone with my orange tan and heels higher than offensive height but they looked like they were pale from stress and deeply trying to be troubled on call and in life. I had to part from the gays who drank the drama crowd koolaid. But before the short, pale, people with the reddish brown hair graced the stage with low ticket sales I was filling the auditorium three days after being alive as shopping girl. Its scary to think that the phone I toted in the play like a name tag saying, “I don’t need to be smart, just slut and able to dial,” might have had 911 on its history. I stole the show not because of the audience of brave faces, or because I was cute, because deep down everyone that year was deeply addicted to Alicia Silverstone and the play was understood as a kid version of all things Clueless. I didn’t get two friends though. Everyone one else in the play goes as follows: mail men for gifts, a kid lost in the mall (without a phone), girls walking and saying words of there choosing in a copied valley voice. These girls I know now to be the jealous girls who hated me for understandably wearing cooler clothes, on the stage, with a phone. They didn’t even get to wear there pagers because pagers weren’t allowed at school. Cell phones weren’t restricted yet in school because even the principle didn’t have one. I wonder if the school really wanted me to go down.
“Cause if it wasn’t for all of your torture
I wouldn’t know how to be this way now and never back down.”-Fighter, Christina Aquilera.
They picked a perfect target but like most who try to think I can be taken down they are regrettable very wrong. I might have stole the show because I was alive but I pulled off what was to come with tears, bruises, horse voice days, heels used as weapons, rudeness and a good tablespoon of crazy. Shopping girl is a role that did not return the next year due to its glutinous message. I was Belle In Beauty and the Beast and even my dad was thinking I should let someone else have it. All the other girls who auditioned and really wanted it ironically were cast as lost boys. I should have started carrying pepper spray much sooner. So Disney princess was my last role as a preteen. The next two roles were already predestined for me by adults of the PTA. I was slut at 15, (I guess 15 is old enough to label someone a slut and not look too bad for saying it) and the role of Bitch soon followed. I later came to realize that even though someone tried to kill me the fact that my destiny as either a prude pitch, slut, bitch or ugly rigid Esq was in fact a choice. Either way you lose so I made bitch into a brand and slut into a state of mind. Its odd to think if this list was never found I would die without the slut badge intact but still the understanding that one breast size bigger and 12 months was all it was going to take to get the ball rolling. I also began to dress slutty but not for attention. I have an addiction to hot pink, 6 inch heels, and orange tan activities. I know sometimes it looks bad or even to much and its like crack I have to put it on. I don’t care if people think I am fake because they are right.
Never saw it coming, all of your backstabbing
Just so you could cash in on a good thing before I’d realize your game
I heard you’re going round playing the victim now
But don’t even begin feeling I’m the one to blame
‘Cause you dug your own grave
After all of the fights and the lies ’cause you’re wanting to haunt me
But that won’t work anymore, no more,
‘Cause if it wasn’t for all of your torture
I wouldn’t know how to be this way now and never back down
So I wanna say thank you-Christina Aquilera.
I am thankful that along with my missing natural beauty is the availability to use tangible objects to stay in place long enough to make me look better. I could tone down my look if I was forced but usually I look like the stereotype of a dumb bitch who will probably sleep with you if your nice and listen to her. They were mistaken. Plus, in order to not be philosophically hypnotized by a guy who claimed to understand me I would bum rush the guys I wanted to sleep with so he didn’t have time to tell me that he wants us together sometime soon. I have the pills of no pregnancy and condoms that aren’t expired. Oh yea your still a slut if you use protection get tested and have a kegal machine that keeps your nether regions tighter than unmoved dry soil on a mountain top. Your also still a slut if you are a bitch and vice verse. So are sluts cool? I sure thought I was but not because I physically responded to sex in the human way we are made too. I thought I was cool because I knew that under my bleach blond thick hair was the mind of a girl with a 4.0 and no extensions.
When I was a little girl growing up my father had a dream for me. He wanted me to attend Baylor high school a virgin (he didn’t say that part), alcohol free, and still be able to defend myself and somehow maintain a scratch free automobile. This was the hopeful plan my dad envisioned for me.
Three other men who defiantly didn’t see Baylor or even community college in my future were planning my death before I even wore my first pair of six inch heels. I was 13 and at the time was planning on going to the mall with Lauren my best friend and a adult chaperon. I didn’t plan on wearing bullet proof material or plan that being a 13 year old version of a, “out spoken,” women would lead to planned multiple killings while I served as the first to go down.
At 13, I was given the news that a letter was found which lead to evidence and a plan to murder myself and over ten other students at the hands of two peers and one adult. The list led to my life being in existence and this is oddly enough not a sad story. Not a silver lining, learning, I am better because this happened load of bull sit either. This is more of an account of what things happened due to this incident that usually wouldn’t be assumed.
Before the news broke concerning the tragedy around the events at Columbine high school, my junior high almost replaced the understanding or notoriety of the first widely known school shooting.
Henry Lackey was always in my class in grade school up until the 6th grade. I interacted with him some, like we all remember of segments of time where our talking was transmitted to students other than our playground buddies. Henry was a nice boy, and had many of his own friends. He was the kind of presence in my life that arises the feeling in a survey when you select, “Neither Agree or Disagree.”
In 6th grade I was really popular but not for the usual reasons a 13 year old girl is. I was loud, voiced my opinion, wore nice clothes, was in the drama program which before my entering sixth grade had not existed. I was living with my father who remains my hero. We were very fortunate and he spoiled us but someone successfully instilled in me that it doesn’t matter if your rich, poor, pretty, skinny or ugly. If you messed with me or hurt my feelings then I was going to say something about it. Loudly. I could be pretty cruel in that way, but my mean streak would only show itself when protecting myself or defending loved ones.
The girl who didn’t have brand named jeans was never singled out by me unless she initiated something. My need to convince this ideal of myself as a 13 year old semi vigilantly because some kids who purposely hate or spew evil towards their peers for no reason might be on a hit list without a question of placement.
I was supposed to die by the hand of John, Henry and at 9:43 am in the widened back hallway of my junior high building. I would be performing my monologue while the three of them would come through the double doors on my back left and it would have been over. John and Henry were brothers and John was a high school student known for being a little disruptive due to his hobby of using fire and matches like a condiment at dinner. Besides the rumored love of all things burning I never heard the brother was a monster. The neighbor who was in his late thirties and often watched the boys after school was Elliot. It was later admittedly and proven to be all Henry’s idea and his accomplices twaddle Dee and twiddle dumb were only informed a day before the plan was to be executed literally. They had the guns, ammunition, the black get up gear, and by evidence speaking they were fucking serious. Henry was a smart kid in class I remember and apparently showed that through the depth of his plan. Unfortunately for him, the mind of a junior high kid mentally brilliant or not still has more growth to adulthood. He lost the hit list. He made a list of 10 people who would die first. I was numerous Ono. What still perplexes me is that unlike others who had come to despise me, I never told anyone Henry was bad or good. Henry never had a crush on me or me him. He was newly decked out in Gothic gear but it was almost mandatory for someone to be following that trend and I didn’t hate. My best friend was number two because she was popular like me and next to her name it said-“would be number 7 but she is best friends with miss piggy.” For those of you who are wondering, I am miss piggy.” By then though the Miss Piggy comment didn’t bother me as much anyone because I grew big boobs overnight and deeply internalized that as a equalizer or cloak to cover my little nose from ridicule.
So the list was found by a lovely gay friend of mine who had once been in choir with me. At first he thought it was a joke, and then said his temperature went up. After pondering a moment what to do he said that if he saw one of those, “disgruntled dark angels,” he would scream way above the soprano mark. The afternoon before the morning of my death I was called into the office and told in the nicest way possible that someone was plotting to kill me and it’s OK now.
I felt at the time and even more so now that there was not enough focus on this list as a whole. My name was written first and bigger along with my best friend but the names underneath were spelled right and ready to be acted on as well. Instead of us all getting a front page story, unwittingly the two girls who dressed like Cheer Horowitz from clueless, who had not had there first neutral cycle for a full year yet, were being focused on like the notoriously girls for no reason in a teen movie. Another per cursor to my full understanding of a yet to be damaged psyche, I internalized the overkill of notoriety as I should have. I thought it was fucking weird. Luckily for my best friend, she like me was not able to fully internalize the whole incident so the possible trauma couldn’t get through to the layer of crazy or reason for later drug habit category. Plus, my best friend had me to defend her if anyone messed with her so we were pretty OK contrary to the events. I am sure our parents suffered the most but the minds of 13 year old’s, no matter how intelligently adapting and founded can’t handle a multiple homicide, or a life of mental and psychological issues due to someone almost killing you. Of course, what happened to us could have made a huge dent in our sane box, and just in case I saw a therapist. I don’t know. I sometimes tell my best friend Lauren, that God was like, “I am gonna let them off today in life and in mind.”
What I found crazy and sometimes almost sickly hilarious was how some of my peers were blindly jealous of me because they weren’t on the hit list! They wouldn’t say it but a 13 year old hormonal girl isn’t usually good at hiding the jealousy emotion. Also, since the names on the list were outnumbered by the other students, talking about me was about as methodical as chicken nuggets as a lunch option. A few of the names on the list had their last day at that school the afternoon the letter appeared. A few of the kids were popular and quiet natured which intensified. The rest were our friends who were either guys we couldn’t relate to already, girls who were jealous because there name appeared after five. A few teachers who were seemingly miserable in their free time started to pick on me as well. One lady accused me of copying numerous writing projects I had worked on timelessly while my father watched on. Needless, to say my father was not in the mood for anymore turbulence towards me so after they had a meeting my “plagiarized,” work suddenly began appearing on the cork board under a new category, “A examples.”
Overall, people did not know how to react. Some of the clueless PTA even tried to make the understanding that this was going to happen, as silly as a game of cops and robbers. The evidence was noted and observed but not understood as the real truth. The truth was that for what ever reason, all the attention of the incident was focused primarily on me. The loud rich girl who’s style icon was Jenny McCarthy during, “singled out.” The girl who probably told her daughter that she needed to shut her ugly mouth before she called me a name. I was the girl who was to young to be a slut and to old to be a victim. I was popular, wasn’t scared of getting in front of a room and talking, and mostly I didn’t try or want to look or be this person. I was this way because it came natural. I assumed less attention from some of the PTA members or mom’s was due to their deep delight that my new branding said, “Future stupid slut who spends daddy’s money.” No matter how I lived a life later they would still single me out and I would continue to remind the ones who tried to bang my dad that he was not interested. My favorite was, “Excuse me Mrs.. Mom you have peach lipstick on your teeth. Mine is Clique you should really use that mine never gets on my teeth.” Later I was kind of a slut by societies standards, but I was smart and spent daddies money to a certain degree-until I was an adult. My dad didn’t even due the usual custom of giving the spoiled kid a one way ticket to a ridiculously expensive university where they would blow the college fund faster than a it takes to find two Easter eggs in the grass. My father made me drink away his money in increments of a 20 dollar bill here and there, at home in our area for free. At the time I hated him for doing this just as much as I was grateful he saved me from the guilt I would most likely feel spending his foundation and source of what fed me and my younger twin sisters with silver spoon and all.
The hit list was not the last time I would be featured as an attack motive by peers but these lists were what today is known as the, “Burn Book.” I even made one by writing a letter to the person who was talking about me or I had a problem with and making them a copy. One girl Tracy who told everyone I was only popular because I had big boobs wouldn’t take my letter so I made her two copies. One on her locker and one on the girls locker..Everywhere.
Tracy In History Class, her Mother Tracey In A Hurry, and 20 something year old boyfriend of Tracy 1: Doug. The PTA pretended this was not there like all there lipstick stained to their teeth. Or their husbands going to strip clubs instead of anywhere public with them but the church.
That girl in school who always dates a really old guy and he is always country, quite or garish. Either way it’s always creepy and always allowed by a mom who acts like PTA is God but lets her hair down at night in her roots of redneck by allowing the grown man to spend the night.
January at age 13 still. Tracey is cute but has a raspy voice, smells like reds, doesn’t smoke on the weekends and dates men who could be in prison for dating her and have an IQ high enough to stay awake during the day, have all their teeth, but lack in the ambition to drive a car. Tracy needed add med’s and instead drew pictures of mickey mouse with pencil in notebooks and giving them away at lunch. She signed them just like Minnie and Mickey do at Disney World and I then I realized she was copying them. I wrote this to Tracey trying to warn her in a since but the Bitch put away her coloring books that day and didn’t lock her locker or her gym box. I took the coloring books out, flushed the reds, and let her keep her silver heart necklace that smelled like baby food. Her purse wasn’t worth the mess either so I just put it outside and Doug picked it up later and surprised Tracy with a new bag. She asked for her wallet back and giggled.
Nothing is worse than a liar but a good liar. I actually believed that you weren’t a complete dumb ass. Sadly, your English paper isn’t the only incorrect regrettable words flowing through you head. I tried to give you a chance to admit that you were having a bad day and you wont talk shit about me again. Or, at-least be more careful so the janitor doesn’t tell a kid in Spanish at the vending machines. First of all you have bigger boobs than me and you date older guys who are to stupid to worry about jail time or dental hygiene. You smell down there. BLANK BEEP BEEP whatever curse word I could spell-The end.
Kelly (my mom was at least smart enough to give me a name besides hers and spell it right).
I Was In Detention For A Week-Scarily enough for others in detention and teachers in detention as well, I have always loved to read and would read for eight hours a day while silently not regretting what I had done only because I know by now Tracey and Tracy have forgotten. My sentence:
Which of Course Was Rebelliousness-My Dad Didn’t Punish Me Because I Played the True Victim. I Couldn’t do the choir show which was good because they didn’t dare kick me out of the play. So basically Tracy didn’t really care either she just wanted to keep up the, “I am kind of normal gig,” by taking the proper steps to have principal interaction and be made an example of. Special treatment was given that year only in the form of a week off from the school. No one sent a card either which I wouldst have been offended except when I got my tonsils taken out everyone sent me something.
Tracey’s Mom With An “E,” and A U haul.
P.S. Tracy and her mom also named Tracey, spelled with a E by error and decided it was easier to keep. They tell this story as if they are kidding but there not and its uncomfortable. Most people don’t say Tracy anyway she is usually not wanted around you unless you are giving her answers or your over the age of 20. Anyway the Tracy team was fucked in the head and the Tracy age 40 wanted to be pretty like little Tracey but didn’t try. Tracy was cute but wore bad makeup from cheap anything. There is nothing wrong with cheap makeup but she just wears makeup like she wants you to know it is cheap and she smoked at age five. Tracy mother was a little smarter in a kindergarten since but it took me two rounds to get her out of my life. They were really evil bitches and
I did call her mother after she tried to tell my dad his parenting skills were to blame. I told her that if she said one more word about my father then I would walk my little disgruntled out of control child self into the the police station and ask them if it is OK that Doug sleeps over? If you even tried to lie about it there is more ways to prove it than contest it.
Her face lit up with fear at the possibility of never seeing or stringing colored paper on a wall with her PTA soulless (UN cute versions) of Step-ford wives. She turned away and one day Tracy didn’t come to school or the dance. I heard later that they moved after the PTA was anonymously tipped off. I wonder who did that? Hmmm…Tracy’s mother dissipated quicker than rat mob mosses about to enter witness protection and Doug was never seen outside the pre-teen locker room with white brown crusted carnations again.
I was wrong to write with permanent marker the obvious already understood situation. I also felt kind of bad because while Doug was legally a pedophile he wasn’t rude to me and I threw some stuff at him one day and didn’t look angry. Either way, Doug was probably just a real dumb ass by blood and knew that only a 13 year old dumb ass with a trashy mother would get him laid. The day I displayed this info was the last day people pretended Doug was some cousin out of town with a speech impenitent. Also, if I had done this before my appearance on the hit list I would have at least known a possible reason of hatred. The Tracy-Gate day gave everyone what they wanted: Proof I was a crazy bitch who was not going to back down even if It meant getting into trouble, or looking like a moron. I understood this too as stultifying more negative, positive, attention so from then on I would not write letters.
The Moral of this many tiered story about my 13th year on Earth Is-I am lucky to be alive and I still don’t think I deserved to die from being a bitch to the innocent people or people who weren’t labeled cool. I didn’t feel better than others because I had nice things and a cell phone. I thought I looked more like Cher or at least Dion with a cell phone. I was trying to show my status as better I was trying to show myself in a way that was anything close to Alicia Silver stone.
BITCHES CRY and I CRIED A LOT. I just couldn’t put on a stiff upper lip while people sat and talked about me without saying, “Excuse me what the fuck did you say?” Most 13 year old’s would just plan a party and not invite the bitch, or try to do a better toe touch. I was a white girl wearing brand name outfits that looked baby hooker-ish and was honest in a way that didn’t come from moral obligation.
A Lesson I Would Later About Being Such A “BAD ASS,” – You get your ass kicked alot before you can defend yourself…even in the areas of the privileged preppy and bad dancing.
The moral of this story remains that while I was a total over the top bitch and still struggle with that, I never wanted people to hurt. I only wanted other people who tried to hurt me to understand that there were repercussions. If I am going to cry in a bathroom stall and later that evening because of what someone says I was not hiding my emotions the next day. I was too honest for some people and still am. I never saw Henry or his brother after that year, I did’nt have the pleasure of meeting the classy neighbor Elliot who knows maybe he could have been friends with Tracy’s boyfriend Doug? All joking aside I thank God for protecting the lives of all who could have been affected if Henry had not lost (or made the list). I am also thank ful that I was somewhat shielded in terms of how this affected me future wise. It still feels like a dream. My principal Mr. Forrester was speaking to my counselor while pretending I wasn’t in the room while they tried to tell me the news of my attempted murder. Mr. Forrester had copies of the soft long worn intact list on the machine still hot from being used for a record of significance. Appropriately disturbing, realizing that the tactic to break the news to me was freaking me out, Mr. Forrester and Mrs. Brown went into the hallway to try and put something together for me to mentally snack on. Mr. Forrester couldn’t see well at all, and I knew this by the huge thickness of his yellowing glasses which I always thought made his vision worse. I also thought he was full of shit and only wanted to see things he wanted to see. On my foot right by the rolling printer was the note. I took it with the same urgency a little girl steals another chocolate piece of candy.
It has stayed in every drawer since then of mine. Not as a shrine but as a reminder that things could have been a lot worse and I don’t mean death. My best friend Lauren who I met and kidnapped or force ably made my first best friend on the first day of Kindergarten is still my best friend and we talk everyday. We always recount events in our lives and never talk about this event. Not out of pain or fear of feeling overwhelmed. We forget it happened. The letter is even forgotten in significance next to my night stand drawer stuff. The original was looked for tirelessly like Way looking for his shrunken kids in Honey I Shrunk The Kids Again 2 or whatever.”
I didn’t forgive the potential killers nor do I hate them. Henry was a little boy who I remember at the age of six saying that his favorite color was green and he wanted a turtle for Christmas. Six years later even the most involved parent might not hint on a new Gothic style as a new killing spree plan. Also, after the Columbine news broke a year later it over took the existence of what could of happened in our area. Honestly, everyone from the named list members, to the faculty to the parents were OK with forgetting.
I do not need closure. I am not going to write these idiots some weird deep letter and go on a Oprah like show and claim this experience freed me. I am free right now except for the recent, “We Are Going to See If We Can Get Away With A Potential Plan to Enslave Women,” attempt I am almost free. The only thing that correlates with anger and my lack of freedom with what happened is that Henry, his brother and the other loser probably have better health care options than I do. The reason for their stints in jail are related but also for other crimes after wards as well. At least no one died so there crimes had to be less abrasive.
This information is that of a fictional nature and not claiming to be based on factual events that should be taken seriously.