I feel like I need to write about a sweet, nostalgic childhood memory. Mostly because 99.999999721% (I calculated it) of this blog is sick and perverted, so maybe if I toss in some cute things it’ll dilute the raunch factor. So, RAINBOWS AND PUPPIES AND PEOPLE NOT HAVING SEX AND OH FUCK I BROUGHT UP SEX AGAIN EVEN IN MY ALL-CUTE-THINGS SHOUTING SENTENCE DAMN IT WELL OKAY KITTENS! AND ANGELS!
Except the slight problem with this is that I was not a cute and endearing child. I mean, I was cute, because I was a little towheaded toddler and they’re all cute, but I wasn’t one of those twee little girls who spun around in circles and blew kisses. I invented an imaginary friend named Mary who was always trying to cut people with a magic sword, and my favorite movie was Beetlejuice (tied, oddly, with The Secret Garden), and once I hid behind my bedroom door rapidly stuffing Tootsie Rolls into my mouth like a crack fiend on a sugar bender.
Or there is the time where I decided to play make-up and slathered my mouth in more red lipstick than a Russian hooker (SEE? Even in my childhood reminiscence I can’t not bring up prostitutes! It’s like a horrible curse), and then instead of going downstairs and washing it off, I wiped it all on one of my mother’s white shirts. Why? I have clue. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
I mean, I wasn’t the worst child ever or anything. Probably. I mean, I assume I did something adorable at least once. Before I could talk, maybe? I think I hit my stride around three, before I could really fuck shit up but when I was still old enough to walk around. And it was all just downhill from there.
Whatever, no one can take away my memories of the Tootsie-Roll times. Ahh, back when drugs were free and hidden in your parents’ candy dish.