“Goddamnit. Is that Stacy?” I thought to myself.
“Fuck, it is.”
The last person I wanted to see that night was Stacy Knopf. She was a self-styled midwestern punk-girl of the suburbs, who I absolutely loathed. We shared two different classes this semester, and she was equally annoying in both. I could not fathom who would ever want to hang out with her, but she was hot, so I guess, someone would.
Her whole persona seemed so contrived. Stacy struck me as a girl who wanted to be seen, and as someone who needed the attention of anyone who would provide it, regardless of whether it was positive or not. The constant questions in lecture, followed by tangential anecdotes that nobody wanted to hear were seemingly endless. You could see the whole class collectively roll their eyes when she raised her hand.
I had made my offhand comments to her about how irritating I found her behavior. I’m here to learn, not to listen to her prattle. I know I can be an asshole, that much is obvious to anyone who knows me, but some people just bring out the worst in me. Stacy was at the top of that list. Worst of all was that while she annoyed me thoroughly, she fucking knew it too.