Lately I've become a bit concerned over the tone of my posts...wondering if they were too much. After some soul searching, I came to realize that my posts perfectly reflect who I am. However, I forget that people who read this don't know me. They don't know my inability to control my mouth. They don't know that I tend to say exactly what is on my mind when it is on my mind. They don't know that I giggle like a little kid at words like box, balls, shaft, etc. What they see on here is a freak (which I am) with little to no social graces (guilty as charged). In short, what you see, or read, is what you get. I make no apologies for my crassness or inappropriatenss. These are my thoughts, exactly as they come into my mind.
However, it has led to some reflection on how exactly I became the way I am. Sarcasm was a way of life in my family. You better know how to come up with a good come back or you will be eaten alive by the sharks in my family. We show our love in zingers and put downs. Practical jokes and an ability to push each other to the limit are every day ways of life.
One memorable occassion occurred when I was about 13. They were painting the base gym and had spent days peeling off the old paint...the old BROWN paint. It was that style of paint that is like plastic. They GI's thought it would be hysterical to shape this paint like a giant turd and leave it in the shower of the gym. Juvenille humor at its best. My dad thought this was the best thing ever and quickly appropriated the fake turd for his own personal use.
At the time, my brother (3) and sister (5) were sick with chicken pox and were often given cornstarch baths together. On this particular night, my father carefully placed the fake turd in the tub, knowing I was getting ready for my shower, and took up position in his bedroom to watch the show. I unsuspectedly enter the bathroom, pull back the shower curtain and prepare for my shower. My father is anxiously waiting for me to discover the turd. Finally, I turn and look into the shower. At the sound of my loud screech, my father comes running. I indignantly point into the tub and make sounds of disgust. I should have known what was up when my father could barely get out the words, maybe E or P had an accident. He's choking on his own laughter. I'm so grossed out I don't pick up on this. My father instructs me that I need to remove the turd from the tub. Of course, my response is an emphatic NO. Remember, I'm 13..sullen and owly but still prone to obeying. After much back and forth, and a flood of tears from me, I stomp over and get about 10 faceclothes, grab the paint turd and with a large PLOP deposit it in the toilet. I'm bawling by the fact that I was forced to perform this disgusting task. Again, I should have known that (A) my mother would never have left a large turd in the tub and (B) no turd is so perfectly shaped. At this point, my dad is crying just as hard as I am, but his are tears of laughter since I've now dropped the turd into the toilet. All I can say is, he's fucking lucky I didn't try to flush!
So, now perhaps you understand why I am the way I am...the blame belongs squarely with my parents. Freaks that they are. My only hope is, I can be just like them!