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.