"The spirit of bershon is pretty much how you feel when you’re 13 and your parents make you wear a Christmas sweatshirt and then pose for a family picture, and you could not possibly summon one more ounce of disgust, but you’re also way too cool to really even DEAL with it, so you just make this face like you smelled something bad and sort of roll your eyes and seethe in a put-out manner."
When I read this my mind rocketed back to the eighties, when I was so consumed with distaste for everything and everyone I was forced to live with or near that I could not wipe that look off my face, no matter how I tried. I think I even slept with it on. My parents would tiptoe into my room, thinking, sure, she's a raging harpy when she's awake, but maybe we can love her again if we get a glimpse of her angelic sleeping baby cutie face and they'd peer at me in the darkness and run from the room, hissing oh dear God she's still doing it!
Without further ado, if you have the stomach for it: The Bershon Queen of Locust Valley High School.
Ugh, gack, are you, like, taking a picture of me? Can't you see I'm writing? And trying not to notice that I'm at like a picnic or whatever? GOD.
Here I am forced to consume cake:
Fine, cake, sure, but the hat is so super-lame it's not even funny. Am I wearing the same oversized white shirt here? I think I am. God, I'm a dork. And so are all of you. I HATE THIS FAMILY.
The Bershon started young, for me:
Fine, I'm sitting, I got the barrette in my hair. Are you HAPPY? Will you just take the picture, already? I have to go dream of the eighties, when I'll wear oversized white shirts.
Bershon seems to run in the family. Here I am with my sister Liz:
I totally look older and cool like my cool big sister, because I'm making this face. See? I am so freaking sophisticated. But why am I dressed like I'm in Little House on the Prairie?
And my brother James:
"I have no teeth. I can't Bershon it up when I'm lacking teeth."
"God, she's a dork. Why am I sitting on her lap? GOD."