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.

Chapter 2.5: I'm funnier when I'm hungover. So right now, I must be fucking hilarious.

Could you die from a hangover? If that could happen, I'm pretty sure I would be dying right now.


I woke up thinking it was Friday. Like last night didn't happen. Ground hog day. "What are you doing home?" I asked 7 year old Carlos Dragon. "It's Saturday." he replied.
My friend says to me "Your eye doesn't look right."
My eye is purple.

How did this happen? I don't know. It's extremely obvious that I like to party fucking hard.
It could be many things. One of the many spills onto the concrete? If I was a betting man, I'd put my money on that.


Its times like these that I realize that my priorities shouldn't be cute boys in tight pants and partying like a boss, but on other things. Like racism, or stds. (not awareness, I just want to be those things.)


I apologize, but 'Chapter 3: Why cool children put tweezers in the power outlet' will have to wait for another day. Perhaps tomorrow.
Remind me not to drink until I can't feel feelings tonight.

Seacrest out.

Chapter 2: Why you shouldn't put kittens in your lunch pail

A guy ripped passed me on his bike and I yelled "Run!"

Welcome to

Chapter 2: Why you shouldn't put kittens in your lunch pail

 

I'm going to keep this somewhat brief, as I have a feeling this will incriminate me for animal cruelty.

 The year is 1990. Our hearts are being warmed by sweet little McCaulay Culkin (man, that face slap still gets me every time), and we're trying to hold on with Wilson Phillips. Break free, break from the chains, if you will. I'm like any normal 4 year old kid, putting popcorn in my ears or swallowing a jolly rancher whole and thinking I'm going to die for the rest of the afternoon.
Life is good. Got moms to myself while my sisters went to school. This meant I played with every possible thing I could think of that I wasn't supposed to play with. I would switch their cassette tapes and think it was the most fantastic prank I could have ever pulled off. I'd lay on my sister's Madonna bedspread and pat myself on the back for a job well done, while chewing an apple with my mouth open. What? Moms was having a nap, of course I'm going to take advantage of my alone time. I might even say a swear.

 

So one day, mumsy decides she wants to get a cute little kitty from the pet store in town. There are two things horribly horribly wrong with this sentence. See, my mum isn't really the cat type. Or dog type. Or child type. But like hell if that's going to stop her. She likes to live on the edge. Secondly, if you buy a kitten from a pet store, it's going to fucking die. Like they tend to do.

She brought home little baby kitty INSERT NAME HERE (give me a break, I was 4. I can't even remember the last time I had my period. I mean...) and we were all delighted and smitten with little baby kitty. Of course the only thing I'm thinking is "Oh snap, a new thing to frig around with." but mum said I had to leave the cat alone.

One thing about me; tell me I can't do something, chances are, I'm probably going to do it just to spite you. Not only am I not going to leave the cat alone, I'm going to take this shit to the next level and put the cat in my fucking lunch pail and swing it around. Okay, MOM?

So, like I said. I put little baby kitty into my lunch pail.
Sadly, shortly after, poor little baby kitty passed away behind our fridge.

 Moral of the story: don't put a kitten in your lunch pail, because 20 years later, you still won't know if it was the lunch pail that killed it, or the fact that it was from a kitty mill.

 Did you notice how I said I was going to keep this brief? Tomato, tomotoe.

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

I don't know about you, but I think Mrs Bigglesworth looks stunning as a brunette.

Cute! Just kidding, she's not cute. I hate her.

Chapter 1: Why my life should be written down

I've written and rewritten this approximately one hundred times. And never in a million years would I exaggerate.

Will I rewrite this? Scrap it for the 109th time? Odds are pretty good.



So, I've been thinking for a while about starting a blog. I've been told that some people think I'm interesting (? I don't really understand either, but I'm going to run with it). And I thought, "Shit yeah. Ive got really important things to talk about, like jam. And other things." But, I then realized that I don't know how to do that. Nor am I really even sure what the fuck a blog is. So.



My name is Chelsey. I wish my name was Seth Rogan. I'd be friends with Adam Sandler and you would be so jealous of me.



I was born once. As far as I'm told, it was an alright time. I'm the youngest of 3, therefore (I wish I could do the three therefore dots, but I'm on a computer and I don't think they have that symbol yet. I have faith that it's coming soon.) my parents didn't really give a nugget of their own feces that I wanted to chill in their family. Baby book? Haha no. Baby pictures? I don't even know what I looked like as a small person. Immunization? Pfft. Who needs that. Actually, that last one was a lie. I had to have my shots so I could go to school. My mom had very important naps to have in the afternoon, and there was no way I was going to cramp her style.



Side note: I'm peeing right now AND typing to you at the same time. Choo nasty.



Anywho, while my mom smoked cigarettes, napped and repainted our kitchen every 35 minutes, I was out in the world. Getting all my life experiences, ya know? And when I say out in the world getting life experiences, I mean sitting in the tube by myself at school, getting ketchup chips in my eye. Maybe my definition of life experience is different than yours, okay?

Aside from burning eyes, 2 time hand me down clothes, the fact that I couldn't read or write my own name, (first day of kindergarten, our names were on laminated dinosaur cards... First one up, last one down.) I think I was a pretty cool kid.



My sisters used to play this game with me (it was pretty much my favourite thing) where they'd spin around in circles over and over again, fall down unconscious, wake up with English accents, and pretend they didn't know who I was.



You can kind of grasp the kind of kid I was. Awesome.



Next up...

Chapter 2: Why you don't put kittens in your lunch pail. A life lesson well learned.