Children and Basketballs

This morning, I was awoken at 6:45 am, by a little girl screaming bloody murder outside of my bedroom window.  At the same time, her brother was running around hooting and hollering, while their parents were laughing and yelling to each each other.

WHAT I WANTED TO DO:

Go outside and scream at them, “It’s not even 7 am yet, motherfuckers!  Do you not have the common decency to keep your bastard children quiet so they don’t wake up your fucking neighbors?  Oh no, that’s right!  You’re being loud too!  Way to teach your children how to live in civilized society, fucking white trash assholes!”

WHAT I DID:

In my hungover state, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  Instead I sent bad juju vibes their way, and put my pillow over my head, in an attempt to get back to sleep.

I was already irritated with the children in my complex.  Last night, I went out for a friend’s going away party.  As I pulled out of my parking space, I heard a clunking sound under my car, which I just thought was a water bottle that had rolled under my car.  As I kept backing up though, my car refused to move.  So I pulled forward, and heard the clunking sound again.  “Fuck me,” I thought, “just what I need right now.   For my car to be fucked up.”

I got out to look underneath the car.  There was a basketball wedged underneath, which I retrieved.

WHAT I WANTED TO DO:

Hold the basketball ransom, and put a sign in the back window of my car, saying “Children, if you want your basketball back, get a parent to bring you to apartment #224.”

Then when they show up, tell the parent, “You realize that your kid left his/her basketball under my car, so it probably fucked up my engine?  Are you going to pay for it?  No, because obviously you don’t even teach your children respect for their own belongings, let alone anyone else’s!”

WHAT I DID:

Left the basketball sitting on the curb next to my car, because knowing my luck, the parent and kid would stop by at 6:45 in the morning, and I would be too hungover to deal with them.

I told Lobster about the basketball last night, so he regaled me with this story.

“I know for a fact the Lobsterling is my kid.  He’s a little shit.  The Somali kids in my complex accidentally threw a basketball on my balcony.  They came to the door to get it back from us, but I couldn’t understand a single goddamn word they were saying.  But the Lobsterling did.  So he went to get the basketball, and decided to take my pocketknife and stab it before he threw it down to them.

Then the Mexican children who live downstairs, literally ripped the basketball in half, before giving it back to the Somali kids.  So the Mexican kids got blamed for ruining the ball, and the Lobsterling got off scot-free.

I thought the whole thing was hilarious, since the Somali kids are so loud and annoying.  But I had to be a good parent, so I asked him why he did it.

He said, ‘Because those kids are mean to me, and won’t play with the rest of us.’

‘That doesn’t mean you should destroy someone else’s property.’

‘But they’re so loud and annoying.  I hate them.’

‘Still not okay.’ “

I thought this story was hilarious as well, especially since I was drunk when he told me.  But seriously, WHY ARE KIDS SO SHITTY?  I swear to god, I’m becoming a cat lady.  Get off my lawn, you little shits!

My Aunt is just as crazy as my Mom

Grandma Squirrel and Cheerleader Cousin’s daughter have back to back birthdays.  So Aunt Crazy Pills, Uncle Fighting Illini, Masturbating Cousin and I traveled to my hometown for the festivities this weekend.

While sitting in the backseat with Masturbating Cousin (who either thankfully or pervertedly, was wearing cologne for the occasion) I asked my aunt, “So are we staying at Grandma and Grandpa’s? Or do you want to stay at my parents’ house?”

“Oh, I didn’t even think about that.  I guess we could stay at Grandma and Grandpa’s.”

“Well, I have a key to my parents house and I don’t think they’d care if we stayed there.  Plus, I don’t want to sleep in the basement bedroom with no window.  The one that’s set up as a shrine to Great-Grandma Squirrel. That stinks.  The room, not the Grandma.”

“Every time I go down there, it makes me need to poop.  The smell of it.  It happens to me when I go in secondhand shops too.”

“Um . . .ok.  Then we’ll just stay at Mom and Dad’s then.”

My uncle just shook his head in shame.

That didn’t stop her though.  We stopped at Costco on the way, because my aunt was having stomach problems.  She also needed to pick up some Preparation-H in bulk.  As we were leaving, she had to go to the bathroom yet again.  The rest of us went to wait for her in the car.

As we were driving out of the parking lot, a fire truck showed up, sirens and lights a-blazing.

“Someone probably had a heart attack inside,” I commented.

“It was probably whoever went into the stall after me!” my aunt replied.

Later that night, Masturbating Cousin was in the bathroom for 30 minutes.  My aunt knocked on the door to see if he was ok, thinking he was having the same stomach ailment that she was.  Obviously, his stomach was fine.

I hope I never have sons.

My sluttiness comes back to haunt me

Despite the fact I haven’t gotten any in a year and a half, I used to be quite the little slut.  I’ve even been called on it recently.

I hesitate to even write about this, because knowing my luck, it will come back and bite me in the ass.  This story is just too good to not tell though.

My mom called me from Panama yesterday.  My brother and a friend went down on Friday morning, to stay with them for the long weekend.  She told me the boys were at the bar watching the game, and referred to the friend by name.  I asked her to describe what “Michael” looks like, while trying to keep the terror out of my voice.

Five years ago, my brother graduated from undergrad, so my family flew to San Diego for the festivities.  I tacked a day onto either end of my trip, so I told my brother I’d have to stay with him those nights.  My first night there, he and his frat brothers decided to throw a party, of course.

Once the frat bros figured out who I was, they hit on me, to piss my brother off.  “GET OFF MY SISTER!” became the catchphrase of the night.

Michael wasn’t in the frat, but was friends with some of the guys who lived in the house.  He had to work late, so by the time he showed up, everyone was drunk.  He introduced himself to me, and we hit it off, mainly because he wasn’t hitting on me, like all the other douchebags at the party.  We escaped outside to avoid the drunks and get to know each other (that is not a euphemism).

At this point, some underage frat douchenozzles showed up.  We didn’t realize until later, but they were coked out and drunk on absinthe (which was still illegal at the time).

They immediately got pissed off that someone who was not in the frat, was “getting on a frat brother’s sister”.  So they picked a fight with Michael, who was both outnumbered by them, as well as being smaller than they were.  I ran inside to get my brother and his roommates, who stopped the fight.

Twenty minutes later, they tried to fight him again.  At this point, I’d had it.  I screamed, “GET THE FUCK OUT OR I’M CALLING THE FUCKING COPS, ASSHOLES!!!”

One of them replied, “SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU UGLY BITCH!”

Oh hayyyyll no.  You do not call me an ugly bitch IN MY BROTHER’S HOUSE.

So I hauled off and punched him in the face, as hard as I could.  I’d never hit anyone before, or ever been in a fight.

This just incensed him, so he tried to fight ME then.  “YOU FUCKING UGLY BITCH!  I’LL KILL YOU!”

My brother and his roommates held him back, while I continued screaming in his face.  “C’MON AND TRY IT, MOTHERFUCKER!!  THE COPS DON’T LIKE DICKS WHO HIT WOMEN!!  PLUS, WE’RE ALL OLD ENOUGH TO DRINK, AND YOU’RE NOT!!  HAVE FUN IN JAIL, DOUCHEBAG!!!”

So he started punching the guys holding him, which resulted in my brother’s ribs being broken.  They finally got him out of the house, and he didn’t come back.

I looked around the room at the people not involved in the fight.  They were all California girls, blond and anorexic.  They looked at me with fear in their eyes.  They were scared of the big-titted brunette who had the balls to punch a dude in the face.

While the girls were scared of me, I was a legend amongst the guys.  Whenever I’d go out with my brother all week,  random people I’d never met would see my brother, then look at me, put two and two together, and immediately congratulate me on taking that fucker out.  Apparently everyone hated him anyway.

The night of my brother’s grad party, my family had already left for home, so my brother took me “as his date”.  The school rented out an entire bar for the shindig.  So everyone got stinking drunk, while I sat nursing my drink in the corner, since I didn’t know anyone there.

Then Michael came to sit with me.  I hadn’t seen him since the night of the party.  “I just wanted to say thanks for punching that guy.  I don’t think I’ve ever had a girl get in a fight for me before.”

“Well that guy was a douchebag.  Like he should have a say on who I’m gonna get on?”

We chatted a bit about other things, laughing at my intoxicated brother hitting on his own ex-girlfriend at the bar 4 feet in front of us.

Then Michael kissed me.

We immediately stopped, sat facing forward, looking at my brother to see if he’d seen us.  He hadn’t, since he was too concerned with his own sex life, to be bothered about his sister’s.

“Oh, he’d kill me if he knew I just kissed you.”

“He’s MY brother!  He’d bitch me out, but he wouldn’t try to fight you.  He knows I’d punch him in his broken ribs if he tried.”

“He’d stop talking to me.”

“No, he wouldn’t, because I’d tell him I’m his older sister and I’m allowed to kiss whomever I want.  Plus, you’re not a jerk, so he couldn’t complain . . .and it’s fun to sneak around!”

My brother eventually came over to the table to tell me he’d called a cab for us.  While my brother went to the bathroom, Michael and I hid in the coat check room to makeout.

Michael joined my brother, my brother’s ex, and I in the cab.  My drunken brother asked Michael why he was in the cab with us, and he made up some excuse.  The ex had to have known what was going on, but she kept her mouth shut because she was trying to fuck my brother.

Once we got back to the house, we hung out for awhile, until I went out the back door “to smoke”.  Michael went out the front door a few minutes later.  We walked up the beach, holding hands, talking and making out, scared for our lives that my brother would come looking for us.  But that’s what made it fun.

By the time we got back to the house, everyone was asleep.  My brother was in his room with his ex, the other roommates were in their beds, and the couch already was already taken by other partiers.  The only place left to sleep was in the bed of a roommate who was out of town.

Now I wasn’t a total slutbag.  I kept my pants on.  However, fun times were had by all.

The next morning, one of the partiers sleeping on the couch yelled throughout the house that “MICHAEL FUCKED YOUR SISTER LAST NIGHT!!”  We hastily lied about everything, and I went into my brother’s room to take a shower, where I happened upon his ex’s panties on the floor of his room.  I just looked at both of them in his bed and laughed.  Saved by the bell.

Once I got out of the shower, Michael was gone.  I didn’t see or hear from him again the rest of the trip.  It wasn’t until 6 months later, when he found me on myspace, that I got a message saying, “I didn’t get to say goodbye!”

We’ve kept in touch off and on over the years, and neither of us have ever told my brother anything.

And now he’s staying with my parents in a foreign country.  I’m just glad I’m not there for the awkwardness.  Then again, maybe I would have gotten some.

P.S. Lobster says, “What’s his last name? . . . Oh, that sounds Irish.  Maybe he’s Catholic and he wants to confess his sins to your family.”  Lobster is an asshole.

Panamanian Lady

So my parents left for Panama a few days ago, and I had to take them to their hotel by the airport.  Since they were going on vacation, they were super hyper.

My grandparents have a friend whose brother lives on the canal and runs a spearfishing company or something.  “Jack”  is 75-years-old, while his Panamanian wife is 25.  They were going to be in the US for a month, so they let my parents stay at their house for free.

As we drove to the hotel, my mom looked at me with crazy eyes.  “So somehow we got on Jack’s email list, so we’re getting mass emails from him.”

“Why would you be on his email list?  That’s weird.”

“He sent us all an email saying about how his wife is tired of eating fish and wants to eat some chicken.”

“Who cares about that?”

“And that he told her she has to eat 40 more pounds of fish before she can eat some chicken.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.  So I’m gonna buy some chicken before we leave, and put it in the freezer for her.”

“You are evil, Mom.”

“I really don’t like the guy.  I’m gonna pretend like I’m an introvert for the 2 days they’re still there, so I don’t have to talk to him.  I’m making your dad do all the talking.”

I looked at my dad.  He had fear in his eyes.  “Are you gonna be able to do that?”

“I guess I”ll have to, huh?”

“Your dad will have to learn how to hook the computer up to the internet and how to use the phone, hahahahahahahaha!”

“Oh my god, Mom, you’re mean!”

“I don’t care, I don’t want to talk to that jerk, so I’m making your dad do it!”

Then later, my mom asked me, “What do you want us to bring you?  A 75-year-old Panamanian husband?”

“No, he’d have to be 78, going on 79, for it to be appropriate.”

“I will find one and hide him in my suitcase for you.  Only a rich one though.”

Then later, “When we get home, we’re helping Nicki move out and she’s gonna live with us again.”

“That’s good, she needs to get out of that marriage.”

“And if we die in a plane crash or are killed by guerrillas in the jungle, I want you kids to let her live at the house until she gets back on her feet, ok?”

“Yes, ok, if you die, of course.”

She also gave me color copies of their passports and credit cards, in case I have to come bail them out of Panamanian jail or something.  She didn’t tell me where she hid her wedding ring this time though.

Today would have been your 29th birthday

But instead, Katie, you will always be stuck at the age of 19.

I remember my mom telling my brother and I there were going to be some new kids that Maxine would be watching.  And one was a 7 year old girl, just like me!  Her sister was 5, just like my brother, but I don’t think he was too thrilled about that.

You were the new girl at school, and we ended up being in Reading class together, since we were both smart cookies.    And we were in Talented and Gifted together.  Then you joined my Girl Scout troop too!  I was really excited to have a new friend who shared so many things with me.

You taught me how to be cool, even when we were little kids.  You taught me how to make friendship bracelets which contributed to my love of arts and crafts, that still continues to this day.

You went with me when I got my ears pierced for my 10th birthday.  You’d already had it done, so I thought you were a pro.  It hurt so bad, I’ve never gotten a piercing since.  But once it was done, we got an earring set for each of us, with those little broken hearts that read “Best Friends”.

We were on Student Council and were crossing guards together later that year.  Oh and we also competed in the Odyssey of the Mind tournament, traveling all over the state to perform our self-written play.  You remember how you were the cavewoman Zork, who invented the fork and barbecued pork?  And remember how we almost went to the world championships, but only missed it by 2/3 of a point?  Granted, the world championships were in Tennessee, but it still would have been awesome.

You moved 3 hours away at the end of 5th grade.  But that didn’t stop us.  You remember me coming to visit you and almost getting bucked off your horse?  I was so scared.  I remember us trying to wash your sheep, Siskel and Ebert, before the state fair started.  They had to each outweigh us by 100 pounds, but we had fun getting wet in the hot summer sun.

How about when you came on vacation with my family and I?  We put all our Scouting to use; riding horses, canoeing, and hiking.  I had a blast.

I wonder what would have happened, how our friendship might have progressed if you hadn’t moved away.  But we still tried, at least.

In fact, that’s what you were trying to do when you came to visit me 10 years ago.  I just wish you would have called me or emailed me, so I could tell you I was going to California with my family.  Maybe all of you wouldn’t have driven up.  Maybe all of you wouldn’t have made the trek clear out to my dorm and would have left sooner than you did.  Actually, maybe that fucker shouldn’t have been driving drunk.

All I know is that you left a note for me on the whiteboard of my room, telling me you stopped by.  And when I entered my room and checked my email, I had an email from Emily telling me that you were dead.

I’m sorry I couldn’t speak at your funeral.  Your mom asked me to, since all of our other friends were in the car with you, so they were still in the hospital.  I just couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t function all week leading up to it.  I was a basketcase all during the funeral too.

I really wanted to speak though.  At least to take the strain off your sister, so she wouldn’t have to worry about it.  But she soldiered on, and didn’t falter when she spoke at all.  I don’t think she’d dealt with it at all.  I still worry about her, Katie, and I feel bad that I didn’t take the responsibility to be her big sister.  It’s something I regret, because I think I could have helped her maybe, to help keep her head on straight.  As it is, she goes by her middle name now in some sort of rebellion against whatever.  But I still call her Sarah, because she’ll always be Sarah to me.

Your cousin spoke at the funeral too, the one I met when we were kids, the one who has the same birthday as me.  Isn’t it funny the things you remember?

Around this time, I was taking a class called Oral Interpretation of Literature.  Pretty pointless, but I happened to read this poem of my choice, aloud in that class, just one month before you died.

Twenty-Five

by Rod McKuen

Where were we

when the coming of the rain

made us turn from conversation to the window?

In mustard fields maybe,

or the love jungle,

and as we talked

we were with others, not ourselves.

I was thinking of old birthdays and holidays gone wrong

and pretty people seen on streetcars

but never met.

Selling soda bottles to pay for movie matinees.

I was twelve.

Tarzan was the man I most resembled in those days.

How can I have grown so old without once swinging on a

vine?

Did you think of party dresses

and high school plays

or hallways full of lovers not yet met?

The mind is such a junkyard;

it remembers candy bars

but not the Gettysburg Address,

Frank Sinatra’s middle name

but not the day your best friend died.

If in your mind there is some corner

not yet occupied with numbers you may never need,

remind your memory of the day

we turned to watch the rain

and turning back forgot

that we belonged to one another.

I haven’t forgotten, Katie.  How could I?  You impacted my life more than any friend I’ve ever known, even 10 years after your death.  I love you and miss you.

Ass Diamonds

So The Mutation was having some problems with constipation.  For some reason, he decided to share this with Lobster and I.

“Yeah so I’m taking Immodium A-D to regulate my bowels,” he told us.

In astonishment I asked, “You know what ‘A-D’ stands for, right?  Anti-Diarrheal!”

“Are you serious?  I’ve taken 4 of them today and 4 of them yesterday!”

Lobster had to give him a hard time.  “You are never going to poop again!  It’s just all gonna be backed up in there!”

“Well, in all reality, you might not poop for a week.  One of those pills stops me up for two days.  And I poop everyday.”

“What!?!?  I thought that it would regulate my bowels!  What’s gonna happen to me?”

Lobster had to dig the knife in deeper.  “When you poop, it’s gonna be so compacted, it’s gonna be like a diamond from all the pressure.”

“Oh my god, you’re gonna have like 8 hemorrhoids after this poop!”  I had to join in as well.

“You guys are assholes.”

“That’s what ‘A-D’ stands for . . .Ass Diamond, not Anti-Diarrheal.”

“Fuck you guys.”

In the end, he did poop.  And had to text Lobster to tell him.  I didn’t receive a text, “because I’m a girl”.

Christmas Snippets

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My brother, the almost 27-year-old lawyer, stared into the gas station cooler at 11pm.  “I don’t know if I want hot chocolate or a root beer.  I don’t want any caffeine.”

“What are you . . .six?  Hot chocolate or root beer?  I’m getting Gatorade, you pansy.”

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Uncle Ponytail Bachelor hit my brother up for free legal advice 2 days before Christmas.  Apparently, he owes the IRS $10,000 and doesn’t have the money.  Given my nickname for him, I’m sure you can guess what he has spent all of his money on.  (No, not electronics.)

____________________________________________

When playing Apples to Apples with my family, the Masturbating Cousin was the judge.  His green card was the word “sultry”.  It took all my willpower to not select the card “Surfing the Net” from my hand.

____________________________________________

The amount of food my now-retired-mother fixed was outrageous.  She made 7 different types of cookies (over 15 dozen), a quadruple batch of homemade Chex Mix, and a double batch of Muddy Buddies.  My grandma and Aunt Crazy Pills made 2 different types of homemade candy each.  Christmas morning, we had both Swedish pancakes with about 10 different toppings, as well as biscuits and sausage gravy.  Also, hot toddies and egg nog with rum and brandy.

____________________________________________

The outfits my family wore all Christmas Day:

- My Brother and Masturbating Cousin:  Their pajamas.  They neither showered, nor changed into real clothes.

- My Dad and Uncle Fighting Illini:  Hideous Hawaiian shirts they purchased on some Caribbean island 10-15 years ago, solely for the purpose of being able to golf at a club which only allowed collared shirts.

-My Mom, Aunt Crazy Pills, and Grandma Squirrel:  Typical Christmas Sweaters with matching earrings.  My grandma had a necklace made of tiny Christmas lights shaped like Mickey Mouse, which lit up when she turned it on.

- Me: Pink pajama pants, with stockings all over them.  A red turtleneck sweater and red fuzzy socks with Rudolph on the toes.  A huge green ribbon and bow in my hair, so I was dubbed “Cyndi Lauper”.

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All in all, very fun Christmas, with my very crazy family.  I just can’t get the “Scrumpy the Dog” song out of my head now.

My Christmas Presents

I received all kinds of awesome things for Christmas.  First off, my British pen-pal Helen sent me all kinds of British goodies in a huge package.  Luckily, it got here before I left for my parents’ house.  I’m not even sure what most of this stuff is, but I’m excited to try it.  I also sent her a package filled with American/Oregon goodness, so we had our own little sociological celebration.

The best part of the whole thing was that both of us thought that what we received far outweighed what we sent.  I figured that this was because we each sent things that are commonplace for each of us, but they are unique to the other person, since we are in different countries.  I mean, I sent Helen Kool-Aid and Tootsie Rolls, for Christ’s Sake, and she was enthralled.

—————————————————————————-

Santa was a little prankster this year.  This is some of what I found in my stocking:

- A spiderweb stick, which has been whittled down and inscribed with the words “I’M GONNA GET YOU SUCKA!”  It has a duct tape wrapped handle (not pictured) and is about 6 feet long.

- A pound of butter.

- A hair pick, that is actually mine from 20 years ago.  My mom and I got perms back then, and she got a pick set for us.  I got the little one, since I was little.  At Thanksgiving, I saw the big one and referenced the little one to my mom, which Santa somehow found.

- Two mini bananas.  Not plantains.

-A box of fucking raisins.

-Weird Peanut Butter and Strawberry Jelly M&M’s.

- One cent stamps, which are supposed to go on the remaining set of envelopes I received from Santa last year.  The envelopes are for me to send a check to my dad for my car payment.  Good luck with that, Dad.

SANTA ALSO GAVE ME “THE PINK BLANKIE” FOR CHRISTMAS.  “The Pink Blankie” is a blanket that has been in my family for longer than I’ve been alive.  It was my dad’s before he married my mom, and it’s the most soft and loved blanket ever.  This was the blanket we always used when we were sick as children.  We haven’t been able to find it for years, and I was convinced that my parents buried it with our dog. And I bitched up a storm about it.

So Santa found it in a closet somewhere and gave it TO ME.  And my brother was pissed the hell off.

My legs covered with the holey pink blankie. Oh and I got a super fancy computer from my parents too. Windows 7, FTW!

I’m a ghosty president

“What time do I need to be at the airport to get you?” I asked my brother over the phone on Tuesday afternoon.

“My flight gets in at 9pm, so probably 9:30.  Are we driving down to mom and dad’s house tonight though?”

“Yeah, why not?  Otherwise, I’ll have to wake up early and drive us down and probably crash and die, because I’m tired.”

“Mom’s nervous about us driving at night, since it’s gonna be below freezing.”

“I know, she was freaking out on me.  She thinks I’m going to kill the two of us in a fiery crash.”

“She told me to watch your driving, make sure you’re being safe.”

“It’s like I’m the President and you’re the Vice-President, and both of us can’t fly on Air Force One together, in case it crashes.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Did you notice that I’m the president and you’re the VP?  That’s because I’m older.”

“Whatever.  That hasn’t been the case for the past 2 administrations.”

“It doesn’t matter.  I’m the President.”

After picking him up at 9:30pm, I drove, very carefully and very slowly, to our parents’ house.  Obviously, we ended up being later than we thought.

“Do you think Mom will call us to see where we are? . . .correction . . .WHEN do you think Mom will call us to see if we are alive?” I asked my brother.

“I’d say any minute now.  We should mess with her on the phone.  We should say that we’re bleeding and the car is about to fall into a ravine with us still in it.”

“No, we should be all , ‘WOOOOO I’M A GHOOOOOOST!!!  I’M ALREADY DEAAAAAD!  Wait, I’ll be already dead and you be bleeding to death, okay?”

“YES. PERFECT.”

Getting in fights with people on the internet

I’ve become addicted to a multiplayer online game.  It’s not a World of Warcraft type game, however.  I’m not that much of a dude.

I have two accounts.  One with a  feminine avatar, a feminine username, and I have my account set to say my real age and gender.  The other account is androgynous and ageless.  No one knows the accounts are both mine, despite the fact I play exactly the same way.

The players are approximately 20% female, 80% male, and the average age of the players is probably 22.  Playing on each account has become like a sociology experiment.

When I’m playing with my “girl” account, the boys either hit on me, or treat me like I’m an idiot bimbo.  The younger girls are generally nice to me.  The girls closer to my age are catty as all get out.

Some of the older girls are incredibly verbally abusive to the other players.  And me being me, I of course call them out on it.  This leads to hilarious catfights.

When I play with the androgynous account, the boys will talk more shit to me, because they assume I’m a dude. But they will listen to me more often than not, because they think I’m a dude as well.

The younger girls aren’t as friendly, probably because they think I’m some rapist.  And the same exact girls who I get in catfights with “when I’m a girl” are my super best friends when they assume I’m a boy.

I’m considering making an account with an avatar of a cute picture of myself when I was younger and set my age to the age I was in the picture, just to continue the sociology experiment.

Yeah, so that’s what I’ve been up to, instead of writing blogs.  Getting into fights on the internet, with either 14 year old kids or other women in their late 20’s.  I’m the coolest person alive.