It weird to know you are reading this, yes you, whoever you are. It's weird to know you are reading what's supposed to be the inner most workings of my mind, when you really don't know who I am. You don't know that I had my first kiss (I'm talking tongue here) in second grade with a kid named Ryan Smith, who's real name was Christopher Ryan Smith, but he got too many pooh jokes, so "just ryan". Or that I learned the way of manipulating someone's affections shortly after that when I bribed a kid named joel (who was quite attractive for a second grader) with a gigantic sugar cookie with m&m's in it to be my boyfriend. Or that my teacher was Hawaiian and that I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen (I had a thing for older women even then). You don't know that I have a blue velvet pillow that I have had ever since I can remember being cognizant, and that I don't like to sleep without it. You don't know that I played Lady MacBeth in fourth grade, and that I had an affinity for her, madness speaks to madness. Or that my first illicit beer was an extremely old can of Old Milwaukee pilfered from my best friends pantry. It made him literally sick and me disgusted. I was something like 8 or 9 years old. Or that I used to make suicides in a Detroit Lions football shaped thermos that I brought to school in 6th grade. Or that Kevin Soules exposed himself to me on the playground in a game of truth or dare, I wasn't fazed. He told me the next day that he and Tyler thought I was the coolest girl around because I didn't "freak out" like other girls would have. I didn't have the heart to tell him how much I wasn't just like other girls. You don't know that I had my first joint on the back deck of my friend Joelle's aunt's house. It was the dead of winter, there had been an incredible ice storm and everything was covered in a sheet of ice about two inches thick. We huddled outside in night clothes getting stoned. You don't know that I was sent to the school social worker because some teacher thought I was going to commit suicide, or that it wasn't the first nor the last time I would have to reassure other people that I wasn't going to off myself. You don't know that a teacher once told me I was stupid and that I was going to hell. Hurray for public education. Or that I went to more funerals than parties in high school. Or that my friend John made a bet with me that I would get my eyebrow pierced if he got his nipple done. That I fulfilled the bet in some sub basement in Toronto, right before a show at the Pantages Theatre, we were all dressed to the nines. Or that my friend Erin held my hand, because I hated needles. And that it didn't hurt, I just wanted to hold her hand. You don't know that I fell in love with a tiny minnesotan girl who tortured me until it hurt just to look at her. Or that the most peaceful sleep I have ever had was in a small single bed in Ireland where a girl named Stacey (whose bed it was) cuddled up to me and raked her fingers up and down my back until I fell asleep. Or that my friends and I were once the floor show at a bondage club. Or that I've been to the Sex Museum in Amsterdam three times, and it's not even worth the price of admission once. Or that I was kicked out of a sex shop in Dublin. Or that my favorite food is green olives (yes I know it's abnormal).
If you've read this far, I admire your tenacity. You're probably asking yourself why you should care about all the useless crap I have made you read, and I can only tell you that that's the kind of stuff that interests me about people. The random memories that combined to make your past, to make you you. So, obviously I can't force you do anything, but how about you leave me a little tidbit about you? Some little something from your past, and leave your intials so I have some idea of who you are. Whenever you read this, whether it be tomorrow or a month, or a year from now. Leave a little something. Thank you.