if you leave your wet towel beside the bed one more time, I swear to god, this time I am not picking it up. That thing could start to grow mushrooms on it, attract various insects, and emit an odour that can only be described as "swampy", and I still won't do it this time. You have to learn. You have to see the consequences of these actions. I will not ask again.
It's astounding to me the way some people are just... "car people". I mean, don't get me wrong, I can appreciate the way some cars look, but... I've literally been on a date with a man who literally thought it would be fun to just drive me around in his (really not that impressive) car and looked at me each time he accelerated as if I was supposed to be excited by it. BECAUSE HE WAS. HE LOVED IT SO MUCH. My husband once watched a 19 minute long video on YouTube called "Big Engines Starting up" and he was legitimately entertained by it. I hated it. So much.
I'll start by saying: if you know me in real life and you don't want to know any details about my sex life I haven't shared (without anyone asking) already, you may not want to continue with this here article. Things are about to get weird.
I can remember adults thinking my friends and I were weird, or telling me in the lamest, most un-Will-Smith-esque way possible that they "just didn't understand" certain facets of popular culture, and me thinking, "that will never be me. I will never be so out of touch with the youth of our nation." My mom not thinking that Charlie The Unicorn was funny? Criminal. My teacher not appreciating me writing emo lyrics on my forearm? Tragic.
For over a decade, I've had a seemingly uncharacteristic passion for war history and remembrance, especially during the Remembrance Day/Veterans Day season. You wouldn't exactly think a foul-mouthed, opinionated, and sometimes downright difficult woman would be one for so passionately and seriously observing respect and silence for past and present military personnel, and yet here we are. In large part, this passion is due to growing up in the strange little rural Alberta town I grew up in; home to the world's largest horse and rider statue, sports teams appropriately all called "The Broncs", some redneck overt racism, and a teacher with the most passion for respect for our troops I think I've ever met, Mr. Labrie.
My entry into the school system was the rosy, sunshine-y song every Kindergartener hopes for after watching a few too many episodes of Barney and The Wiggles. Thanks to our country's failure at providing enough affordable childcare for working humans trying to put food on the table, I spent two years before Kindergarten in preschool; this ended up being not only the coolest two years I spent in the school system but a complete blessing because I was SO ready to walk in and flex my play skills with my teacher Barbie lunch kit in hand. I knew how to make friends, how to sing repeat-after-me songs, and even how to share the water table if I felt like it. I didn't even wave goodbye to my mom, which I've now made up for by waving goodbye to her and yelling that I love her every chance I get. She prefers I do not do it when departing a public washroom, but we all have our little quirks, don't we?