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.