Reach for the Stars. No, not those ones. These ones down here.

They say if you work really hard at something, and want it badly enough, you can achieve anything you put your mind to. Do I ever have a fucking bone to pick with that asshole. Seriously, if I wasn't wrapped up so tight and cozy in my Snuggie right now, he'd have a flaming bag of dog shit on his door step. I'm pretty sure Wikipedia has his address. I'd probably put a flaming bag of shit on the door step of the guy who invented Snuggies too, just for good measure. What a stupid invention that was. Now, a remote boat on the other hand, that's a different story. That guy; now that guy would get a bag of kittens on his door step. Kittens playing with yarn, all soft and fluffy, bright blue eyed, and on fire.

Do “they” think if I worked really hard, I could be an astronaut? No, “they”, I could not. There are multiple cons to being an astronaut. First, I get car sick. And I have a small hunch that it might be a little more intense when going into space. Second, the space suit would definitely not flatter my figure. And white just really isn't my colour. It makes me look washed out, ya know? And third, most importantly, I would complain about the food in tubes and to be honest, I'm just really not a big fan of Tang. So “they”; for your information, I could NOT be an astronaut.

No matter how hard I try, I cannot become the following things:

- a successful black man (I am not black, nor am I a man)

- a pro basketball player (I am not black, nor am I a man)

- Oprah's best friend (I am not black, nor am I a lesbian)

- French (I'm not actually trying to become French. Let's face it, even the French don't want to be French.)

- less offensive (for obvious reasons)

- the 4^th member of Wilson Phillips (when I heard they were back together, I sent in my audition tape. No word yet. It doesn't feel promising.)

- smart (Wait... What were we talking about? You're making fun of me, aren't you?)

- addicted to heroin (I haven't actually tried that before, but I think I could give it the old college try.)

When I was a kid, instead of all of this 'reach for the stars' bull log, I wish someone was straight up with me and said "Listen Chels. You are off the wall strange, you make people uncomfortable with the offbeat things you say, you're 10 years old and you can't figure out how to multiply and for the love of God, you wear a fucking turtleneck every day of your life." Maybe not Prime Minister material.
 

I was thinking of something more along the lines of a Walmart greeter, or scooping ice cream at Dairy Delite. Oh, nope, bees. I can't deal with bees. I guess we can cross that off the list too. Goddammit, “they”. If I ever get a hold of this “they” character, not only will he have poop on his door step, but I will also drink the rest of his milk.

I just sang "Christmas is sleigh bells, that just can't go to sleep."

Merry Christmas friends! What a wonderful time of year, isn't it? I love everything about it, except snow, slush, wet, cold, malls, buying Christmas presents, wrapping Christmas presents, giving away Christmas presents, U2 Christmas songs, the colour red, and crippling loneliness and depression. Wait, what?

I know I said I don't like giving Christmas presents, but if there's one thing I do enjoy, it's receiving them. If you are drawing a blank for gift ideas for yours truly, here are some things on my wish list.
- rocket powered shoes for getting places faster
- Willow Smith's new album to listen to while I'm getting places faster
- deodorant so I don't smell when I get there
- track ball to play with my friends
- to be bit by a radio active spider. But the kind that give you super powers, not brain tumours.

As your Christmas present, I would like to tell all of you individually, a few things that make me love you. Key words: I would like to. I really would. But as it so happens, not only do I not love most of you, but I try not to make a habit of saying nice things to people.
But, tis the season to not be an asshole and junk, so here is a handful of the most notable:

Chuck Norris; You have taught me everything I know about roundhouse kicks, kicking through wind shields, and owning facial hair. I wouldn't be the same without you. Chuck Norris is in fact, the real Slim Shady.

Jesus; for all that cool stuff you did. Holla at a Caucasian.

Older Sister Number One; I love you because you made 6 year old me sing the man parts in Phantom of the Opera. And for setting up this here blog for me. If it weren't for you, me poisoning everyones mind would not be at all possible. Thanks big sister.

OIder Sister Number Two; I love you because you shot a snot rocket that stretched about two feet, while we were doing the dishes. I also love you because we played hair ball-ceiling fan-volley ball.

Papa Dunny; I love you because you go out to buy hot dogs, come home, and realize that you forgot to buy hot dogs. I also love the way you order Chinese food in a Chinese accent. "Numbuh wohhhn, chicken fly lice." I'm sure we ate their spit on numerous occasions. Oh and that first belch in the morning to alert the world that you are awake. That really pulls the old heart strings.

Best friend; I love the way you never know any of the words but you still sing. And your superior one toned whistling skills. You are the Chuck D to my Flava Flav.

The cast of Jersey Shore; just for being you.

Carlos Dragon; for believing that I have Justin Bieber on my facebook. "We totally facebook chat like every day."

And last but certainly not least, Myself; I love myself because I walk into walls, spill my food and drinks all over myself and everything around me, lose my train of thought mid-joke (my native name when I was a kid was "One who can't tell a joke"), say off beat things that make conversations awkward, my wonderful way with words (I am a word-smith, self proclaimed) and how I look exactly like Kim Kardashian (also self proclaimed). I am a self proclaimed Proclaimer.

I'm on my weeeee...

I apologize if you did not make the short list, no hard feelings, I'm just not very nice. Leave your name in a comment, and I'll be sure to tell you why I love you. Or like you. Or can stand you.

Merry Christmas fuckers

Memories, all alone in the moon light... fla fla fluh fluh fluh flooo flah... I don't know the rest of the worrrds (arm stretched out really far)

So, I was doing some 'ol closet cleaning tonight at Chez Donnie, ("Move your stuff oouuuut, I want to use that room for an offiiiiice, everything I say is whineyyyy." Suck it, Donnie.) and I found some really awesome stuff. Get ready for a...

BLAST FROM THE PAST... PAST... PAST... PAST... PAST

"Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue,
I am good looking,
and so are you."

This here is my very first love letter from a Mr Derek "I have a mushroom cut and I'm a cool guy from 2 doors down that you think is cute and you look really cool cause I'm two years older than you and I like you" Whatever his last name was.

Derek had a mushroom cut. And he was a cool guy who lived two doors down from me. I thought he was cute, and it made me look really cool that he liked me, cause he was 2 years older. Is there a fucking echo in here?



  This is Ray. Ray has been on a crash diet as you can see, and he has decided that he is just too too too thin for his own good. His friend said earlier in the day that his head to body ratio was that of an orange on a toothpick. So Ray is going to walk down the stairs and use the door at the bottom to find some food.

See Ray walk down the stairs. But oops, he looks like he might be losing his balance. 'Darn those crash diets, they have caused my head to be too heavy like one of those somersault dolls, and now I'm losing my balance down the stairs!' thought Ray.

See Ray's abnormally large head plunging toward the bottom of the stairs. 'Trying to be thin to fit into today's "norm" could have potentially ruined my life! Why does society have to decide what I should look like? Curse you, society!' thought Ray.

See Ray's giant bean connect with the stairs. 'That hurt more than the one time I got bit by a rabid squirrel and had to have that long series of rabies vaccines! Or the time my sister pulled out my leg hair!' thought Ray.

See Ray's head bustin' up those stairs like they owe 6 books and a buck fifty to the public library. 'Oh no you di-int!' thought Ray's head. Ray's brain is currently unconscious.

See Ray's dad's complete lack of regard for Ray's unconscious brain, or the fact that Ray's concrete noggin be smackin' up some stairs like them's be sleazy bitches. "The stairs!" Ray's dad yells. But what we don't realize is that he is very fatigued, for he is ailed with the same self imagine problems as Ray, and has also been crash dieting. Had he been a bit more aware, he probably would have been concerned for his son's well being. But I don't know for sure. Ray is kind of a dick.

Ode to Papa

Papa M at my sister's semi formal birthday bash

Papa Martin was born in nineteen number number in Superman's Fortress of Solitude to proud parents Grandma Sweet Lady and Grandpa Pop his dentures out at children. Born Dunnie Dunn Maria Martin, 16lbs 4oz, 147cm long, Daddio was the youngest of 5 kids, with a 17 year age gap between him and the oldest. So, in true youngest child fashion, my dad was the epitome of a little shit. If being an annoying kid was an Olympic sport, my dad would have brought home the gold. What can I say, I learned from the best.

Annoying his 3 older sisters was a game to my dad. He would do anything and everything he could think of just to chap their asses.
"Don, come help with the dishes." "Okay, but I'm only going to dry ONE fork, and ONE plate."
To this date, if he's feeling like a little shit, he'll annoy the crap right out of you. "Dad, go back a channel. I want to see that." "Oh, you mean this one?" And he goes up a channel.
"Dad, my hands are full, can you please help me carry this?"
Completely straight faced he will reply "You're interrupting my chips."
It makes my blood pressure sky rocket.

As I said before, Papa M likes to have himself a few rye and diet gingers, smoke his metal pipes and listen to blaring music until 4 o'clock in the morning. On a Tuesday. He will say to me "I'm going down memory lane, and YOU'RE coming with me." I pretend like I hate it, but going down memory lane with my dad is pretty much my favourite activity. We'll listen to RUSH and he'll tell me about how he was 17 when he first saw them on some terrible Canadian variety show/battle of the bands. He would smoke mass amounts of ganj, put on the head phones, and listen to 2112 and be taken on a musical journey. I've heard all of these stories countless times, but I'll never get tired of listening to them.


I didn't get to know my dad until I was turning 9 years old. I had a strange affliction toward torturing cats. I always thought it was kind of strange of course, until I saw him interact with a cat. Another instance of learning from the best.
If you leave my dad with your cat, chances are pretty good that he will do at least one of the following things:

• play your cat like an accordion
• make your cat look like it's running really fast
• make your cat play air drums
• make your cat play air guitar
• wrap your cat in a blanket for 45 minutes
• wear your cat as a scarf

It is ingrained in my DNA that I do the same. I just can't help myself. Like when you see a kitten and it's so cute that you just want to stick it's whole head in your mouth. What, you don't do that? Ha ha... I mean... I don't do that either. That would just be weird. Right?

I believe my dad to be one of the funniest people I have ever or will ever come into contact with. I'm a big fan of the phrases "Say whaaaaat?" and "Oh snap!" so my dad the cool guy, hip to all of the trends, looked at me one day and yelled out "Saaaaay what, su-nap!" I lizzed my pants for a solid 15 minutes. (Lizzing is laughing and wizzing combined.)

Some of the funniest moments I've had in the company of Dunnie Dunn:

In the parking lot of Dairy West, driving 8km/hr, windows down, in front of 15 or so people.
"Hey Dad, can we go to Dairy Delite?"
"No, but we can go to DAIRY WEST! WOOOOHOOOOOO!" at the top of his lungs. Of course everyone was staring at him, thinking he's some sort of handi-capable, but he just acted like nothing happened and instead looked at them like they were the stupid ones.

I had a stain on my shirt and I said "Hey Dad, can you shout this out?" And he said "Sure. GET OUT!"

I saw the movie Powder with my dad, and he thought it was sheer genius that every time someone yelled "Powder!" in the movie, he would yell out "Toooaaassst Maaaaaan!"

"Chinese isn't a real language. They just talk like that in front of us. And then when we're not around, they speak English."

Hip to new music trends, he likes to sing; "If you wanna be my lover, you've gotta be my friender." or "I'm still Jenny from the block BEEP BEEP. Used to have a little, now I have a lot BOOP BOOP."

Likes: Cartoons, video games, breakfast foods, smokin' dope, pajamas, saying "High five!" like Borat, slappin' the bass, being in a band called 'The Bumpin' Uglies' (ew), eating 2 of the 4 sticks of a KitKat bar, buying presents at the As Seen on TV store (neon pendulum clocks, giant sneaker slippers, dolphin mobiles), making a face and pointing in photos to make it look like he's saying something interesting, naming his cat Mrs Bigglesworth, and pretending to be a french rapper.

"Hmm yes, I concur."

Dislikes: When I use too much ketchup "You did that on purpose didn't you. You're trying to eat allllll the ketchup." "Yes Dad, I'm trying to eat all of your no name ketchup. You figured out my master plan.", when I don't put the lid back on the toothpaste, bananas, ugly people, Corner Gas, when people say "supposibly" or "7am in the morning", and the girl's voice on the Brantford radio station. It drives him absolutely nuts, but he still insists on listening to it. "I wish that she would just shut the hell up."
I wish that he would just change the frigging station.

These are the Daves I know I know, these are the Daves I know

Dave's head was baked in a muffin tray.





It was this photo alone that inspired me to write this ugly kid blog. To all of the people who claim that "I don't have any bad childhood photos. I was just so cute." you can suck my ass. Give me a half an hour at your mom's house and I'm sure I could prove you wrong and rustle up some sort of boy in drag photo or vagina shot. We all have them, and the sooner you embrace the fact that, you too, were probably an ugly kid, the better off we'll all be. I'll have it known that if you weren't an ugly kid, you are no longer my friend.

Let's get down to business, shall we?

From one to ten on the weird kid crapping in her pants scale, this is a hard ten. Poor Dave mistook "Alright kid, smile." for "Alright kid, void your bowels." Common mistake, we can't blame her. Just the other day someone said to me "My favourite colour is rainbow." and I punched them in the shirt because I thought they said that I had a big adams apple.

I truly believe that in the spirit of the bowl cut, Dave's mom decided to try out the muffin tray. And I have one word for it. Success! I plan to rock this style for my wedding. Not that I plan to be married anytime soon. Nor do I even have any prospects, for that matter. Hey, a girl can dream. Y'ah don't rain on my parade. You'll ruin my floats.

I am awarding 10 bonus points to Dave Penis Head for her fantastic turtle neck bought from Northern Getaway. You truly are the poster child for ugly childhood photos. And for that, I thank you. Let's give it up for PhDave.

Dave Christmas Broach
...Or is that food?

See Dave's extra chromosome.

There are so many things wrong with this photo. Despite what I may look like, I am not actually mentally handicapped. In fact, some might call me a genius. It doesn't matter who, okay, people say that. Yes it still counts if it's my dad.

Aside from the lazy eyes and hair crusted to my face in what I'm sure is probably ketchup, I think Dave Christmas Broach is pretty cute in a put me out of my misery kind of way.

"Hey mom, check out how cute I look. Don't you think I look cute?"
"No, Dave."

Dave is hungry for a Baby Ruth.




Dave is about to eat your soul.

 No, this is not the kid from the Omen. Trust me, I checked.

I don't even know where to start. Everything about this picture is absolutely terrifying. If this was my child, I would probably take him "out for ice cream" and then leave him in the woods. What? I'd leave him with a pack of wieners and a book of crossword puzzles. I'm not a complete monster, people.

I'm going to give you the back story on Dave People Eater. He was tragically struck and killed by a truck. His father, overwhelmed with grief, decided to bury little Dave Monster Face in the near by pet cemetery. Even though Father Monster Face knew that his son would come back from the dead as an evil Monster Face, he still did it anyway. Way to be, Papa MF. Little Dave's hobbies include having glowing yellow eyes, hanging out with his bestfriend Black Kitty Monster Face, stabbing people with a scalpel and freaking me the fuck out.

Seriously, are his teeth filed into points? This shits gonna give me nightmares.

Dave Laser beam

Do you think someone was jingling keys to get his attention?

Let's first take a look at the sweater. Are those Easter eggs? Or are they mountains? Whatever it is, it's a party in the part of my brain that controls colour. You know, near the back, behind and below your temples. Okay, so I copied that part from a Harvard website. Who actually knows stuff like that? But all the same, it's a kegger filled with under aged girls in my bean. And the matching turtleneck, Dave Laser beam, takes the cake.

Moving on to the hair. Looks like someone didn't go forward in time to read my blog on why sticking tweezers in a power outlet is not good for your health, nor hair. Please note, a rat tail does exist back there. But unfortunately we are not lucky enough to witness that today. I wonder if it's braided? Or is it au naturel? I have so many questions.

And of course, my personal favourite, the laser beam background. I think every single kid born before 1995 has a school picture with the laser beam background. The bookcase was a popular choice as well. They sent this picture to his grandparents with the caption "Little Dave is now attending the school of Missions Impossible. Or in outer space." And they believed it. Seriously.

Dave Skeletor

This is my only exception to the ugly kid blog post. The exception being that this is in fact one of the cutest pictures I've ever seen.

So, I said to Dave Skeletor, "Is this your third birthday? There are 3 candles on your birthday pie." and she responded with "I don't know. We could have very well not been able to afford more than 3 candles on my sixth birthday."

Being raised as a poor child definitely causes you to grow up a more interesting, well rounded individual, who values the simple things in life.
"Holy apple slices, a two dollar bill!? I can buy a box of nerds and some stale Dubble Bubble from the laundromat. I wonder what kind of a pickle Pud has gotten himself into this time."

Chapter 8: Notes from Heaven

True to the youngest child syndrome, I was the biggest 'little shit' you could have ever imagined when I was growing up. Well I can't really say 'was' or 'when I was growing up'. Being a little shit and I have a serious commitment.

Past, present, and future.

Tape player Teddy Ruxpin and I (creepiest thing... in the history of creepy things?) would have early morning brainstorming sessions on how and how badly I could piss off my sisters. And when I say early morning brainstorming sessions; I mean early. Getting up at 5am was in the job description of being a little shit. Along with playing with things identical to my sister's (she would lose her shit thinking it was hers, but it really wasn't. HA-HA! Chels, you slay me.), torturing cats (not real torture, just playing them like an accordion, draping them over my shoulders, putting them in lunch pails, etc.), stashing cod liver oil pills behind the couch (I used to "take them" every day) and listening to Wilson Phillips on my cool yellow sports walk-man. That part didn't make me a little shit, the fact that I'd yell everything I said while listening to my cool walk-man, did. And I would do all of this at 5 am.

Needless to say, I used to get on my sisters' nerves. I wish I had a better word for what I did. I was the master.
My sisters are 5 and 7 years older than me. So when they were babysitting me and hanging out with their cool friends, I would be a little shit and try to cramp their style by doing the Bart Man and attempting to tell jokes. I ended up in my room a lot. Would I sit and chill out in my room like any other normal kid? Reflect upon how I had wronged them? Chya... Right. Operation Manipulation would go into full effect. If you know me, you'll know I'm a pretty crafty, artsy fartsy, sticker collecting, glue stick loving kind of gal. I'd bust out a piece of paper and a pen and pour all of my feelings onto it. And when I say feelings, I mean 'how can I get out of my room' feelings. It would look a little like this:

This of course, isn't the real art from the year 1992 but it is a very fair representation.

So I'd fold my heartfelt art work into a neat little paper air plane (I was better at making crumpled balls) and send it down the stairs. I'd practice my sad face, and wet my eyes with spit, as I eagerly awaited the beautiful sound of "Chelsey, you can come down now." That was music to my frigging ears. And believe me when I say this worked every single time. I could practically time it. What, you thought this was a one time deal? False. When I find something that works, I place it permanently in my repertoire.

From this day forward, I will no longer answer to Chelsey, Chels, Chel, Chelper, Chelbs, Chester, Chuck, Chunk, Chunky, Chelky, Chaylo, Chols, Cholo, Chols Marinara, Heavy C, Bill, Welby, Chels face, Chelsey Buns, Choltsy OR My little chocolate chip cookie (Dad!). You may now call me 'King Little Shit'. I believe I have rightfully earned that title. Or you could call me a genius. That's all up to you.

Chapter 7: Cheating is my niche

Nikki Chapin. I like the way you inhale the leap.


I used to cheat at pogs. Alright, I used to cheat at a lot of games. Okay! You caught me. I still cheat at most things. Board games, drinking games, pogs, tests, boyfriends, mini-putt, marbles, bakugans, society, death, etc. But I have the after cheat guilt, where I will most likely tell you that I've cheated, and let you partake in a cheat to ease my conscience. I am, in fact, a cheater cheater pumpkin eater. I literally eat pumpkin for every meal.

I had the longest pog tube that money could buy. (I think, I don't know, I was like seven. And it's a well known fact that seven year olds are stupid.) I'd walk around at recess thinking I was THE SHIT. Don't mess with me and mah mad pog skills! And when I say mad pog skills, of course I mean mad cheating skills. I'd play for no less than 6 pogs at a time. For keepsies. I would set half of them upside down when you weren't looking, so when I smacked them with my slammer, they would just fall over. Would you look at that, I won 4 out of your 6 pogs. Oh snap. I was "Pog Ballin'" if you will, until that fateful day when I was hanging up my coat in the cubby area, when my tube of pogs slipped through my fingers. I think you can guess what happened next. Someone yelled "SCRAMBLE!"
I knew that was karma right there. Note to self; you shouldn't have eaten that popcorn during recess in the tube by yourself. Another note to self; get more friends. One more note to self; maybe you'd have more friends if you stopped wearing turtlenecks.

If you ever find yourself playing Monopoly with me, and I insist on being the banker; just know that I plan to cheat. Remember when you go to the bathroom, you'll probably come back with 4 properties missing. I will most likely try to sell them back to you. If you are the banker and you leave the tray on the floor, I have every intention of walking by and trying to pick up money with my feet. I'll buy you a hotel and lull you into a false sense of security. And then BAM. 6 hours later, I'll win that game of Monopoly. You won't even know what hit you. Until the inevitable happens, me confessing my endless amount of cheats. I will say you win by default.

I also lie. About very insignificant things. Sometimes I lie to be agreeable. "Yeah, this song blows chunks. Wait, this is one of my favourite songs." or "I hate butter tarts." an hour later, "I don't know why I said I hate butter tarts. I actually really like butter tarts."
When I was little, I'd make up stories to my mom to make myself sound interesting. "This kid Joey in my class, died today. He died right in class." She never led on that she didn't believe me.
"My dad's cousin is former Prime Minister Paul Martin. No I'm not lying. Seriously, who would lie about something like that?"

Trust that I am being extremely honest right now. All of the things I have written thus far, have been in complete and utter honesty. Do I mind outing my bad habits? No way! You'll still like me, right? I believe on the grand scheme of bad habits, mine aren't THAT bad. It's not like I'm dealing meth to children, or killing people. And 9 out of the 10 times I tell a lie, I'll admit it eventually.

So everyone, rest assured that at some point in our relationship, I have probably told you at least a dozen pointless lies.
"My dad has heat vision."

SEX

Hello. I'm sorry I have been neglecting you. Don't look at me like that. You know you're my everything. But listen. We need to talk. I think we've gotten to the point in our relationship where we need to spice things up.
SEX
Do you feel spiced? Good. They don't call me Chelsey 'Spices Up Relationships' Martin for nothing.

Instructions:
Step One: Youtube 'Let's talk about sex' by Salt 'N Peppa.
Step Two: Listen to 'Let's talk about sex' by Salt 'N Peppa.

Sex is a funny thing. I believe with such pleasure comes big responsibility. I don't know about you, but I definitely don't want to get pregnant or get the AIDS. But to each his own, right?
I think it should be mandatory to have a sexual history resume. "Oh, you slept with her? I heard she slept with that one guy and got the clap." Wouldn't that be so much easier? But no, we have to learn the hard way. "Oh no, he slept with that girl who slept with that one guy, and now I have the clap." Sticky situation.

You could just not have sex. Sounds simple, right? WRONG. I'm no doctor, but I've heard if you don't use it, you lose it. And that's a risk I am not willing to take.
Sometimes I feel that I would be a lot more comfortable in a full body condom, like in Naked Gun. Leslie Nielson makes that thing look good. But I have a feeling that I would lose a little bit of sex appeal. You don't think so? Aren't you just a precious gem.

Have I told you how much I love you today?

So equipped with my full body condom, out on the prowl I go. And when I say out on the prowl, of course I mean talk about running trains on hot dudes and do absolutely nothing, because if I do, I'm THAT girl at the party. I don't understand why society won't just let me get my bang on. As a single gal, I would like to get a little somethin' somethin' on occasion. What's a girl to do? Dear Double Standards; I hate you. Yours Truly, C Sparkle.

What's the deal with old people having sex?

So, I've accepted the fact that I probably won't be doing the nasty until I'm in a committed relationship. Which is absolutely fine by me. Yep. I mean, what is sex with someone you don't love anyways? AWESOME. That's what. I fucking hate my life.

Maybe I'll be extra good in this life so I can come back as Justin Bieber's son. I'm going to get so much poon it doesn't even make sense. But I'll probably end up being a gay. You know, cause I'm Justin Bieber's son and all. That's a given.

This probably wasn't the sexy blog you were hoping for, was it? Oh snap, I made you read the whole thing. You're most likely dumber now. If I can make one person dumber each day, my mission in life is complete. Help me reach my goal.

Fun Old Fashion Family Photo Album or FOFFPA

It's me (my dad) with girl hair. What a handsome fella.

So here's how it started. Ma and Pa Martin on their wedding day. My mom had already had a child, so note the red dress. She knew she wasn't getting away with anything.



Well if it isn't little baby Chelsey in the Neglect-your-kids-inator, complete with the wheels of death! You will notice that I'm in a lovely pink dress. It was absolutely necessary on a count of I looked like a boy.



Circa 1987. Fashion was at an all time high. I'm going to narrate this picture.
"Say whaaaaaaaat?"

And heres the Fam Jam. Again, fantastic fashion. I'm going to style my hair like my mom did and rock my dad's glasses. What do you think? Gold, I knew it. I'm about 3, and still no luck deciphering whether I'm a girl or a boy.

 

See sisters being mean to me. Bunny ears-ing me behind my back. They used to play this really fun game (when I was sitting in the middle of the backseat in the car, where I belonged.) where they'd say, "Chelsey, look at Holly!" and Jess would do a face behind my back. And then Holly would say "Chelsey, look at Jess!" And again... Do a face behind my back. No seriously, it was pretty much like the funnest. Good times had by all.

That fucking Oshkosh jumper piece of garbage. But, check out the sweet kicks. I wasn't lying when I said I was hood.



Me in a nut shell. I like turtlenecks and combing my hair with a fork.

This is the kitchen that was redecorated approximately 487 times. Give or take a few hundred. 7 years old at this point... And we're still not sure if I'm a he or a she. Who thinks I should get a mushroom cut? Cause I make bad hair cuts look good.

Well, friends, I hope you have enjoyed this time warp.

Until next time,

C Sparks

Post Script: I will have everyone know, that when I was looking through pictures deciding which ones I wanted to show off to the world, every single baby picture of me had my sister's name on it. I need an ocean for that burn.

Chelsey's guide to surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

Step 1: Go to your medicine cabinet.
Step 2: Take all the pills you can find.
Step 3: Chase the pills with a bottle of vodka.
Step 4: Have a nap.


Oops, did I say survival?


Everyone likes to think that if shit goes down and all of a sudden people start eating each other, they would have everything under control. I, on the other hand, have absolutely no problem admitting the fact that I would be completely fucking useless.

I used to sleep over at my dad's house on a regular basis. I didn't have my own room, or even a bed for that matter (does this really surprise you?) so I slept on an air mattress behind the couch. It's 1996 and my dad is rocking this insanely cool new game system called PlayStation. I was a bit of a skeptic, considering the Sega Genesis was now bundled up and put away. I just wanted to play me some Wonder Boy, or maybe Pitfall. That was such a good game except for all of those pits you could fall in. But I figured it was worth a try.

I had to hand it to Pops, ask him to pick out some cool games, and he will deliver. The always classic Crash Bandicoot, Nascar (we used to stay up all night and do about 300 laps. He would be beating me for 299 laps when I would come up behind him like a sneaky snake, and SMASH him into the grass. I'm so good at that game.), South Park: Chef's Love Shack (it was a trivia game where 7 out of the 10 answers was Leonard Maltin. Who the fuck is Leonard Maltin.) and this one that looked pretty cool called Resident Evil.

At this point in my life, I was as scared of zombies as any average Joe, in an "Ah, you're eating my skin" kind of way. That's going to ruin anyone's day. At the very least, their morning.

Let me tell you about my dad. He likes to have himself some drinks, smoke some ganj and play video games until the wee hours of the morning. Yes, that's right, he's pretty much the coolest dad in the world. (My dad could beat up your dad. Okay, maybe he couldn't beat him up, but he's really good at lighting a bag of dog shit on fire. MARTIN RULES!)

So, while Daddio discovered the joy of Resident Evil, I discovered my crippling fear of zombies. Trust when I say, when I'm scared of something, I don't half ass it. I put every ounce of energy I can muster into being absolutely petrified. So, the further and further my dad delved into Resident Evil, the more skiddish and paranoid I became. I ran every where I went, even in broad daylight. I'd open my eyes while washing my face to catch a glimpse in the mirror to assure myself that there were no zombies standing behind me. I didn't even really mind the soap scalding my eyes. My showers were short, my lights stayed on, and my head was pretty much on a swivel.

I realize you all must think that I'm the biggest pussy you know. I am not about to deny this. Not for a second. But I dare you to put yourself in my shoes, and see how well developed you are after listening to the grunting of zombies until 4 in the morning, every morning, until he beat the game. I swear, that shit is tattooed on my brain.


Think fast - A zombie breaks through your door right now.

What do you do? Find a weapon.

What do I do? Throw up.

What is your weapon? A baseball bat or a golf club.

What is my weapon? Nothing, cause I haven't found one yet. While panicking, crying and running in circles, I finally find a weapon. It's a Swiffer mop.

What do you do with the weapon? Try to kill the zombie.

What do I do with the weapon? Throw it at them and cry.


I strongly suggest that if a zombie outbreak is to ever occur, steer clear of this gal. That is, unless you would like someone to slow you down, lay on the floor and cry, throw up all over everything and eventually be the down fall of your entire group. But don't worry! I'll be fine. You have your plan, I have mine. Yours involves shooting zombies, mine involves shooting myself. Yours involves blunt objects to the head. Mine also involves blunt objects to the head. My own head. And when all else fails, I plan to repeat steps 1 through 4 as needed.

Chapter 6: Bill

It's pretty normal for parents to give their kids nicknames when they're younger. I am a woman of so many nicknames, I can't even begin to keep track. But my least favourite, longest standing, most puzzling; is Bill. 4 years old, and out of all the nicknames... I get Bill. (I have a feeling that I wanted to be called Billy, like Billy on Melrose Place, but this isn't fact. I could very well have just dreamt that)
So, the era of Bill begins. And no offense to the name Bill (I have a friend named Bill, and I'm sorry, if you're reading this) but I hated the name Bill. And it stuck.


Like I said, I'm not sure where the name came from. All that matters is it did.
Believe me, I was weird enough as is without a nickname like Bill. I had a mushroom cut, I enjoyed wearing track pants, my favourite shoes were grey velcro with the tread that went up the toe, and a bad ass sweater with Bugs Bunny and Taz wearing backwards baggy pants being straight up gangstas. You better believe they were also on the back. I started being 'hood' at an early age.

I remember at my grade 8 graduation, walking down that aisle, lookin' good and feelin' great! I had a new purple tie-dyed skirt from le chateau (so what if I liked tie-dye, that's none of your bees wax), my hair did courtesy of my sister (she got stressed out and ripped half of it out), and pink eye. That's right, pink eye. I'm convinced that someone farted on my pillow as a prank. And I think her name starts with an H and rhymes with Jolly. That's a lie, I made that up. I do not believe my sister had a toot on my pillow. Sorry, I got distracted by poo particles.

Check out the pink eye. And what's wrong with my mouth?

So, I'm walking down the aisle, Alive by Edwin is playing, and we were strutting like we just took over the world. I was proud of my accomplishments, thinking back on everything that was elementary school. The good times, and the bad, when Amanda got hit in the face with a 5 star binder, and how hot my french teacher was. When my thoughts were so rudely interrupted by "BILL! BIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLL! WOOOO! HEY BILL! HEY! BILL HIIIIIIIII!"
My parents. If there was any time in my life that I wished that I wasn't Chelsey Martin, it was at that very moment. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have to explain the name Bill and why the shit your family calls you that? Everyone looked at me like I had an arm growing out of my head.


But being called Bill had at least one upside. The Billmobile.
My mom bought an old bike at a garage sale (cause we were poor and we didn't play the new stuff jive) and painted it blue with white polka dots with the word 'BILLMOBILE' on the side. I'm not going to lie, I was kind of big pimpin'. You thought you felt cool the first time you rode a big wheel? Oh no my friend. That was nothing like the rush of adrenaline I got from riding that baby. I'd stick a baseball card in my spokes so it would sound like a motorcycle, and man did that kitty purr.
The same day my mom was painting my bike, my friend Danny from 3 doors down who liked country music, and myself, decided it would be a really cool happenin' game to run across the street while cars were coming. It was by no means a busy street (I lived in Paris. Makes sense.) but it didn't change how much trouble I got in. I got my bare ass spanked and sent to bed. In the afternoon! What the f is that.
I know that doesn't really have anything to do with my story, but I truly believe that it has effected the person I am today.


Just kidding.


Bill continued without fail until I was about 16 years old. My parents had pretty impeccable timing too. We used to go to the ski and snowboard show every year (the only perk of being a self-hating skier, cute boys with beanies) and, like I do, I engaged in conversation with the painfully cute sales kid at one of the booths. It's at this very moment when my parents decide they need to know the answer to the most trivial question in the history of trivial questions.
"Hey BILL! What was that song you wrote when you were little? You know, the one about a horse? In a ditch?"


"Horsey horsey in a ditch."


If any one of you call me Bill, I cannot be responsible for what I might do. I sounded really threatening there, but in all honesty, the most I would do would be call you a bitch or a dick behind your back. Shizaam, that'll show you.


Alright friends, I'm outtie 5000, take 'er sleazy.

You've inspired me to make you eat your words.

I was told that dudes read my blog, not because I have talent, but probably because they find me attractive. If this is the case for any of you guys out there, do my a favour and stop reading now.
To tell a woman that people like her because of what she looks like and not because of her personality or anything she has to say, is a complete slap in the face.
Should I have done this anonymously, just to be judged fairly? Maybe if you thought I was a man, you would find it funnier? A little better written?
I know it's easy to judge a book by it's cover, but I am who I am, not what I look like.
To those of you who like me for who I am, thank you for giving me the chance to be me. And for those who like me because of what I look like, you can take off, ya hoser. I'll show you.

Chapter 5: The family of avid skiers. Wait, does anyone actually like to ski?

So my friend asked me today, "How do you know what you're going to write about? Do you have these planned?"
I have nothing planned. I sit down, and I write whatever comes to the old bean. I brainstorm a few ideas throughout the day, but for the most part, I'm flying by the seat of my pants. When I tell you what I'm going to write about next time, I have randomly pulled something out of my ass and then I decided, yep, that's what I'm gonna write about. I kind of have to now that I just told everyone I was going to. Cause if I didn't, that would just be hella lame.


I would like you all to know, that all of my stories are 100% true. And from the bottom of my heart, I'm not really even embellishing much. I wouldn't lie to you, you complete me. I'm really just this strange. Pinky swear.


The same friend asked "Were your parents hippies?" and I said "I guess they kind of were." "That explains a lot."
Pfft.


Chapter 5: The family of avid skiers. Wait, does anyone actually like to ski?


Answer: No.


Some families have family hobbies that they enjoy together. These families are strange and they are most likely robots.


My step dad liked to ski. So of course, this meant we were going to ski, and we were going to damn well like it. Not only did we all hate the cold, snow, and ice, but we hated absolutely everything about skiing.
It would be one thing if we got cool equipment, maybe a bad ass ski jacket and matching snow pants with the suspenders. (All I wanted were the fucking snow pants with the suspenders.) But instead of choosing to be fashion forward... We all got snowsuits. Keep in mind, this is the early 90's, so you can just imagine a family of 5 assholes in early 90's snowsuits.

It's not good. It's really hard to feel cool when you're rocking a fluorescent yellow, pink and orange one-sie. You're not rocking it one frigging bit. What you are, is an extra for a Body Break commercial.


Side note: I also had to wear this God awful snowsuit to school (I was probably in grade 2) with winter boots that weighed 16 pounds each and took 25 minutes to get on. Per boot. My sister would literally have to drag me the whole way to school by my arm while I screamed "I LOOK LIKE A HIPPOOOOO!"
As you can tell, my one-sie wasn't my favourite article of clothing.


So, a-skiing we would go, a few times a week. You'd assume that skiing multiple times a week, every winter, that we would get kind of good at it, right? Man, are you ever wrong. You know what they say when you assume something. It makes an ass out of you and only you. Not me. Don't look at me like that, you're the idiot.


My step dad would take off zooming down the hill by himself, considering he was the only one who had any sort of skiing skill whatsoever, leaving the rest of us in his dust (Or powder... Or whatever the hell cool winter sport slang that would be). And then off the girls went! Kind of. The reflection of our snowsuits off of the snow; blinding, legs spread, arms out, scare crowing in a straight line, all the way down the hill. (If you don't know what that means, just picture a Scarecrow on skis.)
Since everyone was forced to "enjoy" skiing so much, the parents decided we should take a fun old fashioned family ski trip to Vermont. And when I say take, I mean drive. How we lived through that drive, I'll never know. 9 and a half hours of us (girls 7, 12 and 14 years of age) singing "We will, we will rock you. Buddy you're an old man, young man, dumb man, fat man, stinky man..." and so on and so fourth, for the duration of the drive. But it was so worth it, let me tell you. What a week of fun. Skiing and Yahtzee. My
two favourite things. I'll only try to stab you in the neck with a pen a couple of times. I promise. (I can be a bit of a sore loser.)


One positive thing I can say about my skiing experience, at least I got a pair of skis. It didn't turn out the way most things do. One ski for each sister, and I have to pretend to ski with a garbage bag split in two.
　
My name is Chelsey, I like long walks on the beach, skiing and playing Yahtzee.

Chapter 4: All good things come in twos.

Two shoes, two socks, two pieces of toast, two cookies, two gloves, two seats, two popcicles, two earrings, three children. Something seems to be off.


As I told you before, I am the youngest of three. Not only is three a crowd, but being the youngest of three means you really get the shitty end of the stick. But, as the trooper I am, I learned how to pick up a shit covered stick without getting any crap under my fingernails.


Two roller skates.
Instead of taking turns like a sucker, my sisters had an even better system.
"You get one and I get one. Shut up Chelsey."
So around in circles they went, each on one roller skate (in circles cause there isn't really anything else you can do when you're on one roller skate) having the time of their lives. Did I go sulk by myself because I didn't get a roller skate? You know me better than that. No, sulking isn't my bag. As a child with a very vivid imagination, I decided that my doll, was in fact a roller skate. So there I was, zipping around our play room with a doll under my foot, thinking "Holy shit, are we having fun, OR WHAT? I love roller skates."


Two FBI badges.
My mom and step dad were FBI agents for Halloween. So of course, like good parents (teehee) they gave them to us when they were done. One guess as to whether I got to be an FBI agent. Ever.
I had to sit at our chalk board desk (the kind with the bench that would pinch your ass everytime you sat down) and be the secretary. A genuine FBI secretary. Again, did I complain that I didn't get to be a real FBI agent? No. I got straight to my important secretarial duties (writing backwards f's, maybe a 4, a circle or a stick, depending on my mood) and I felt as though I was an integral part of a well oiled machine.


Two sets of Freddie Krueger razor fingers.
Actually, I didn't even want to play with those. So, I had no qualms with letting them become a part of the never ending cycle of fun stuff I didn't get to play with.


So my advice to all of you would be, if you ever have an odd number of children like three or five, (no way in shit am I going to count to seven, cause that's just disgusting) buy enough for all of them. If you choose not follow my advice, I believe you are risking the possibility of having an extremely off beat child, that writes a stupid blog everyday. I trust you know the right thing to do.


"I call dibs on the middle seat!"

Chapter 3: Just because tweezers are the same shape as a power outlet, does not mean you should stick them in.

IT'S BLOGGING TIME! That's like t shirt time, but for nerds.


May I just say before I delve into this informative chapter, that this has been the weekend from fucking hell. As some of you know, Friday night, I got into a gang war with T Pain. Or I dove into the pavement. Either way, I came out with a black eye. Trust when I say, that this black eye has gotten worse. But, it's just a black eye, right? So, I spend Saturday nursing my damaged liver, getting more and more purple around the eye, and trying to accept myself as the fool I am. But Sunday is a new day! Gorgeous day to go Canada's Wonderland for Halloween Haunt. You better believe we were pumped as shit. Nice little group of four. Perfect. Until someone bails. We search for someone else all day before we just accept the fact that, we may be three, but we're damn well going. We have a fantastic ride there, everyone picking their favourite jams (so hide ya kids, hide ya wife, hide ya kids, hide ya wife), drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes. You know, all the things cool kids do.


So we're in Vaughan, on Rutherford, right in front of the Canada's Wonderland entrance. Our light turns green. Green means go. We go. Get t-boned. 3 car collision. No one was seriously injured, but one coffee per person equals exploding coffee everywhere. We have a crunched in car that is a total write off, wait hours for the cops to show up, get screwed by a towing company, and no frigging Wonderland. I've come to the conclusion that Wonderland is not so wonderful for me at all. We drove to Toronto for a car accident. Worst weekend ever.


Anywho.


Hello my friends, and thank you for joining me for Chapter 3: Just because tweezers are the same shape as a power outlet, does not mean you should stick them in.


After my stint with sweet sweet baby kitty, I had a new lease on life. 'I need to change myself.' I thought. 'Get some direction.' But how does one Chelsey A Martin at the tender age of 4, change one's life? I could invent something? No, the best thing I invented was mustard on mashed potatoes. I called it shon-da-la-shon-sohn. I couldn't see that catching on. I could start a club! But my only friends were an ant hill at the side of my house. And I don't think ants make much of a club. I've got it. Experiments. What will happen if I get on this freshly painted bathroom counter, (you guessed it, mummers was catching some z's) turn on the tap, stick my barbie underneath, stick my barbie in the paint, and then fling my barbie all over the place? I'll tell ya what will happen, moms is going to blow her top. So don't try that.
"Chelsey, why are your knees white?"  "I fell down and skinned them."  Close, but no cigar.


So I had to think outside of the box. Dig deep. And then, I had an epiphany. For one to have an epiphany the magnitude of which I had, on that very special day, is extremely rare. ...Tweezers... are the same shape... as a power outlet. It blew my mind. How had no one thought of this before? Oh, if you could have just seen me then. I felt as though my life had so much purpose. And that purpose, was to stick the tweezers... right in the power outlet.


I have never quite felt the same sensation as I had on that fateful day of early June. (I don't actually know when it was, I just made that up.) The tweezers melted half way down, I blew the circuit in pretty much every room upstairs, and I had a bigger afro than every member of the Black Panthers combined. It's safe to say that I abandoned all experiments from that day forward.


I decided to take up arson and credit card fraud instead.