Illustration by Bob AulTo the blond teenybopper in the backseat of the white Jeep who yelled "Stop! Stop!" at me for no reason as I was running in front of Newport Harbor High the other day. The urgency in your voice sounded as if you were getting abducted, so I did stop—until you drove away laughing with your friends, presumably to max out Daddy's American Express at South Coast Plaza.
Based on that brief exchange, let me predict your future: you'll make profligate use of the blond peroxide and blue contact lenses handed out at registration at Orange Coast College; get a meaningless tattoo of a dolphin on your ankle during a drunken spring-break haze; develop a $500-a-week coke habit that includes one tear-filled declaration that you're finally getting your life together by taking a pottery class at the Learning Annex; and you'll marry a rich guy and fake your orgasms until he leaves you for someone far younger. And then you'll know the meaning of "stop."
Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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