Horse Girls (Not to be confused with horse faces)

There were girls in high school that liked horses. Collected horse pictures (instead of Duran Duran photos) or even rode horses. I hated them. My friends and I (real winners: chain-smoking, Asti Spumante guzzling when we should be doing our homework, boy crazy) called them "horse girls." I thought about them last night when I read The Highly Sensitive Person. I read it, finally, because my incredibly smart and sensitive friend R. thought I might fall into that category. I'm disappointed, though. The book would have been a revelation if I were 23. But I've changed. I still react strongly to sights, sounds and caffeine and need tons of alone time. But I've also grown to be less exhausted from a mere conversation. I've become moderately social. I fit in. But I also have a completely sadistic streak that isn't sensitive at all and that wants to torture the modern equivalent of horse girls. Cause, the thing is, I know some. And they could use a good torturing.