You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to whisper. You have the right to talk all damn day just so long as I don’t have to care. Or pretend I care.
You have the right to borrow my green cardi. And my thermal henley. But not my J. Crew hoodie. You know how much a J. Crew hoodie will set you back? Do you? That’s right. I didn’t think so.
You have the right to say something “stinks.” But not that something “sucks.” Because when you say something “sucks” it will make people think you’re a common whore. Unless you actually are one. And if that’s the case, then just go on and say something “blows.”
You DO NOT have the right to say the word “retarded.” Because it’s totally mean. I mean you can use it when you’re referring to math homework and school chicken patties and Crocs and knock-off Prada and your locker combination and the game of softball and country music and your headgear. But don’t use it when you’re referring to people, except for those retards Tania Barrington and Wendy Schultz and Carlie Peebles.
You also can’t say something is “so gay.” Except for Disney movies and chem class and Nelson Masterson. They ARE “so gay.” No doubt.
You have the right to eat bananas in the lunchroom if they’re cut up and dipped in fat-free peanut butter and eaten with a fork. But at all costs avoid corn dogs and Popsicles. Unless, once again, you’re a common whore. Which I’m beginning to think you are.
You have the right to look at me and I have the right to look straight through you. Has anyone seen my lip gloss?
You have the right to look at my breasts. Aren’t they pretty?
You do NOT have the right to look at my butt. Were you looking at my butt? Sick. What’s wrong with you?
You have the right to copy answers off my history test and fail miserably.
You have a right to ask me to prom and I have the right to think about it for as long as it takes that other guy to get up the nerve to ask me.
You have the right to come to my slumber party, but only if you bring gin in a shampoo bottle. Don’t tell anyone I invited you. We’ll just pretend you showed up and I’ll pretend to feel sorry for you. Then you’ll hand me the gin and I’ll drink it all myself. Don’t bother bringing a sleeping bag.
You have the right to come visit me while I’m working at the Hawaiian Ice shack. But I can’t give you a free sample. Unless, of course, you brought more gin.
You have the right to call me Amanda. You have the right to call me Mandy. But you don’t have the right to call me. Or e-mail me. Or wave to me from across the library. Or slip me a note during study hall. Texts only, please.