I might as well put it out there that I may very well occasionally be eight going on eighteen. I probably consume far too much coffee and far too little chocolate. I refuse to carry umbrellas and I haven't the foggiest idea how to use nail polish. Now that confessions are over - I'm glad you're here.
All tagged reflection
And yet, I don’t really want to tell her anything. “Oh Honey” or not, she’s definitely a lot sweeter than I am. She knows how to train 5 hours a day and then come home and do physics homework. She spends hours teaching herself how to count cards. And she doesn’t say “Fuck” when she drops a pencil. She wasn’t afraid of having “stuff.” Besides, who on earth would want a 4’11’’ kid walking around spouting unenlightened wisdom everywhere? Sounds like a bloody nightmare. She’d be fun at parties.
According to Motivational Mug I Got For Secret Santa™ I’m supposed to “Live a Life of Colour.” Maybe there’s room in that life for calling someone a “bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkeyshine.” I’ve dropped my fair share of four letter words on those whom I love this year. Another favourite two-word sentence of ours is “I’m sorry.” I can always drop an f-bomb, I do love the smell of Napalm in the morning, but I also dropped a plate yesterday. Out of sheer sleep deprivation, after a very loud word that wasn’t “Oh Fudge,” I said to it, “I’m sorry.” The plate is still broken. I never want my mom, or my friend to be. No matter how much of a boil-brained bloody bastard I may think them at the time.
