Well.

It's been a while! So where to pick up again?

Right.

So there I was, 11 years old and completely mortified, watching the mean girls cry and our V.P. lecture. I could do nothing but mumble and twiddle my thumbs, scared to do anything else. Eventually we were let go, and the girls were forced to write me a letter of apology.

Let's skip ahead to 7th grade, shall we? The epitome of loserdom for me. Picture this. An overly tall, skinny, long/greasy haired girl with a space in her teeth so wide you could fit a number two pencil through it. Now add the factor of zero friends.

Scary, huh? St. Joes was the city's only Catholic middle school. St. Catherines, the elementary school where I had gone, was the source of the largest amount of students for this particular Jr. High. So, naturally, I'd be surrounded by all the wonderful people who had shunned and tortured me in every way possible. Wonderful.

I eventually found a group of girls. They were the middle group. Not losers, but not quite popular. I latched on, not ever wanting to be alone. I was completely oblivious then, maybe because I was blinded by wanting to fit in so badly. My best friend now, Liz, was in that group. I had no idea, but she recently told me how much everyone in that group loved to make fun of me as much as they could.

They would play a game to see who could get me to walk away first, then they would shout "Success!" and hey, high fives all around. I remember one day at lunch in particular when I walked away to throw my trash in the trash can and came back, sat down, and took a sip of my Vitamin Water, which was all the rage. (I still am amazed that even my beverages were based on what oter people had.) The second I did this, the entire table burst out laughing.

They had put bread crusts in my drink. Hilarious, I know. I cried for an hour or so that night. But it gets better. They excluded, avoided, pranked, and humiliated me all two years of my Jr. High life. On the bus ride to Maine for the annual white water rafting trip, I was forced to sit alone next to the bathrooms, texting my mom the whole way.

I promise, this story will get better. Hell, I'm depressing myself here. Until next time, au revoir. :)

Okay, So...Where Were We?

That's right. The depths of my 11-year-old despair.

Bur before I get to that, I'd like to mention that with zero comments and 4 views which don't count considering two were from me and the other two were from Riley and my mom...well I'm getting a little discouraged. Oh well. Maybe I'll get a thousand views someday?!

Now I know blogs are supposed to be humorous, and I'll get there, I promise. I just want to share my story first. Okay so back to that playground...

I went home that day and my mom could not figure out what was wrong. I was always happy. Always. When I finally told her, well...let's just say I could tell she was planning something. But oh God, I did not anticipate what she was about to do one bit.

So at my elementary school, all if the lunch ladies were volunteer parents. Well, volunteer moms. One day, at lunch time, I walked over to the only table that had a seat open. Guess who was sitting there? Yeah, them.

So I sat down and smiled, opening my chocolate milk carton. At that moment, every single girl at that table got up and moved to the boys table. Of course my mom was watching, because of course it was Thursday, the only day she could volunteer.

As I watched her go over to that table, I realized what she meant to do. I immediately sank into myself staring intently at my food and furiously sipping my milk. That's when I heard it.

"Hello, ladies. Have you ever seen the movie 'Mean Girls?'"

One boy- "Yeah, that movie was wicked funny!"

Lead girl of the group- "I love that movie!"

Mom- "Well. You are those girls."

That's the last I remember of the conversation. I know it escalated to the point of tears. And I wanted nothing more at that moment than to disappear.

Our vice principal walked over, and all of us, including my mother, were ushered into the conference room.

Mom, Riley, and internet...Sorry to keep you hanging but I am taking Jamie to 7-11 for a good old Slurpee. Till tomorrow!

So, Where to Begin?

What in the world is a blog? A place to express your feelings, sure, help to complete tasks, maybe, keep you occupied; absolutely.

But what to write about? What makes me so important that others feel obligated to read the words I write, to log on just to see if Taylor has written something new?

Let's start at the beginning. Well, beginning-ish.

I was eight years old when my sister got that kidney from my mom. She had already been through chronic renal failure, pancreatitis, hip dysplasia, hallucinations and pain so severe a thirty year old man couldn't endure, let alone a twelve year old girl.

I learned young that it was best when Riley was sick to stay out of the way, be helpful, take care of four year old Jameson, quickly grab pillows and pills on those late night emergency runs to the hospital.

I'm fifteen years old now. Not even in drivers ed. Riley is a happy and healthy 19-year-old. You wouldn't even be able to tell she was sick at all. She's well on her way to Wheelock college in Boston, with an enormous amount of gratitude to my mother's amazing friend, Jamie, who paid well over 20,000 dollars for Riley to achieve her dreams of becoming a child life specialist.

Me? Well now that I got that whole thing out of the way...Let's talk about my oh so short life so far. I've been to Catholic school my whole life. Second grade I moved to a new school full of new excitements only an overeager 8-year-old can dream up. I was fearless, funny, and didn't give a damn what people thought about me.

Let's speed ahead to 6th grade, shall we? There are two homerooms per grade. I was separated from all of my friends, as I was in a separate homeroom. Being the social butterfly that I am, I opted for another outlet.

They were "that group." You know the one, where they own the place, run it as they should, giggle and gossip...all the usual pre-teen poplar crowd stuff. I was totally oblivious to this. And I bitterly regret the day I marched up to them and asked to join.

At first they were nice, ever so kindly suggesting that I go talk to the other girls. Me, being the oblivious, fearless, boneheaded girl I was then, politely declined and joined the group.

Of course they talked to me, with the teacher around. On the playground, it was a whole different story. One day, in the winter of 6th grade, one of the girls came up to me. She was their messenger. She smiled as she briskly walked over, her eyes never landing on me, but frequently flying to the other girls happily playing jump rope at the other side of the playground.

"Hey, Taylor. I was just wondering, have you noticed that we kind of don't want you hanging around with us? It's nothing against you. You just don't really fit."

Suddenly I felt like I'd been slapped. Fearless, crazy, confident Taylor was gone. Permanently, as I would find out later. I felt the lump rise in my throat, blinked over and over, pushing the tears back.

"Wha-what? No...I guess I hadn't."

The girl looked down. I could tell she despised doing this, but what could she do? If she disobeyed, she was out for sure.

"Oh. Well...I'm sorry, we just have our own circle of friends I guess. See you later."

And I stared after her, sat on the ground, and cried.

With that one small gesture, the Taylor me, my family, and all of my friends knew and loved, was completely erased.

We'll pause the story for now, I have some dinner to wolf down! But bright and early tomorrow, more is to come. I promise, if anyone is reading this.