Sixth grade is a hard time to be a girl, especially a relatively new one (new to the school, not the gender). It would still be another four heartbreaking years before my tribe of wild women started assembling.
I was a freelance friend back then, if you will, and on this one particular day I accepted an invitation from some Horrible Little Girls who were never going to like me anyway. I won’t use their names because they probably grew up to be lovely women and I don’t want to drag them through the muck of their own adolescence.
HLG 1: I dare you to write cuss words on this piece of paper.
ME: Bitch, please. (Scribble, scribble, scratch, fold)
HLG 2: Mrs. Eggers, Serena wrote bad things on this piece of paper!
I have no qualms about using the teachers name.
Their betrayal taught me a lot that day. I learned that you can stop a religious zealot mother in her tracks by claiming the devil made you do it and asking the Lord Jesus Christ back into your heart.
I also learned the power of provocative writing. While waiting for my mom in the principals office, I watched the secretary hand my folded piece of filth to each teacher who came through her door. I was astute enough to understand that I’d be seeing those scowls again, every single time we passed in a hallway, or at recess, or in the lunch room. Granted, “Fuck a dog” was not my best work (I’ve gotten better with so much practice), but on that day I became Super Inappropriate Thing To Say Girl. I’m still working on the name.
I tell you this because I have a poop story that, up until the Percocet wore off, I was successfully being coaxed to share with you. This time not by a horrible little girl, but by one of those Wild Women I’ve accumulated in my tribe over the years. There’s a good chance that she’s just trying to get me back for any number of things I’ve egged her into over the last 25 years – but I know her heart is in the right place.
So that’s it folks. That’s all I’m saying. If you actually want to hear my poop story I’ll be more than happy to share it with you, in private, after you buy me that drink.
Cheers to maturity, such as it is!
2 thoughts on “My Poop Story”
So next July. I’ll have Scotch (or bourbon in my case) and you’ll tell me? Sewioswy!
Next July I will be in Rome. This might require a stop in Louisville.