As I’ve grown into a moderately well-functioning adult, most aspects of myself that I thought permanent have changed irrevocably. I no longer have any aspirations to become a rock star. I no longer fear the loathsome tick. I no longer think that white socks are the end all and be all of Sockdom—black socks are where it’s at, especially if your washing machine requires precious quarters. I no longer eat so many carrots that my hands turn orange.
My job comes with no guarantee of safety. I didn't ask for one, and not a one was offered. I have been scratched, bitten, gnawed, peed, and spat upon, and none of it was much of a surprise to me. However, the aspect of my job that I did not expect, and that which continues to lower my opinion of the human race in general, is the owners.
Before you read this post, I’d like to get a few things straight. I am generally a very mature person, in speech, in actions, and in the way I carry myself. At least, that’s what people have told me for most of my life. Maybe they’re liars. Or maybe this is how maturity works. Either way, every once in a while there comes a day when all of that just breaks down, as if the universe has conspired to reveal my true inner 5-year-old.
You all have been introduced to Amelie the cat. If you don’t remember, or are just now starting to read my blog, you can find her introduction here:
When I was still living at home, Mom was notorious for not liking to cook. I actually remember a time when I was hanging out over at Erica’s house, and I got a call from my mother.
Mom: I’m cooking dinner tonight.
Mom: Yeah. (Intense pause)
Me: Oh. OH.
The world’s rotation slowed for just that moment. I told my gracious hosts what was going on.
Them: You need to go home right now.
And I did. And I always will, if I find that Mom is cooking and expecting me. IT’S JUST THAT SPECIAL KIND OF OCCASION.
When I was but a little bitty sweet thing, I could hardly wait for the chance to grow up and STOP BEING THAT. Images danced through my head of crazy college parties, endless clubbing, a boisterous sex life, and experiences that I would be too embarrassed to describe to my future children.
And these were some mighty fanciful dreams, coming from a kid like me.
I have a lot of scars. I’m not saying I look like some sort of pathetic knife-fighter (I say “pathetic” because if you’re good, people don’t get to cut you), but when you work as a veterinary assistant, there’s really no avoiding the occasional cut. Add to that the fact that I have a natural ability to forget about protecting myself when the adrenaline hits, and you have a recipe for violent blemishes.
Anyways, some of my scars are more unusual than others, and a few in particular have been the source of many an odd question.
--I'm going to try to reply to comments, so if you want to see my reply, go back and look. Much loves!
--I finally figured out how to add AS MANY PICTURES AS I WANT to my blogs. I've definitely added some to my old posts. If you want to see the ones with pictures now, go and look for the ones that say they have attachments, which is next to the "comments" link on each post. Enjoy.
People think I’m morbid sometimes.
People are correct.
--So, I’ve decided to try making my comments section available to any who would post there, regardless of whether or not they’ve registered on this site. Part of me thinks that all the people who don’t comment because they don’t want to take the time to register are wusses. Another part of me remembers numerous incidents in the past where I didn’t do something because that one extra step was JUST TOO MUCH. So here you go, my slacker comrades.
First of all, this is not a post about pot brownies. Shame on you.
Secondly, you may or may not know the individual who is the subject of this post. If you do, fantastic! You have the unknowing envy of many sad, ignorant people. If you don’t, you may even now be storming the capital to try and get me dethroned for posting about a person for whom you as yet have no interest.
Either way, too bad if you don’t like it. It’s not your birthday. :D
It’s not my birthday, either. Stop showering me with good wishes. No one likes a suck-up.