The History Of Me

Some might say I was an odd child.  I was social yet quiet.  I enjoyed people, yet I was perfectly happy to spend time alone.  I lived happily in my own world.  I liked to draw and I liked to read and those two activities took up 90% of any time I spent indoors.  I didn’t get into much trouble and if I did, I was stealth about it.

From early on I disliked dolls and enjoyed collecting toy cars and trucks.  I had a train set, which you wound with a key to make a little miniature steam train run around a circular track. I knew the make of every car on the road.  My parents, probably envisioning me fifteen years in the future coming home with a buzz cut and a girl dressed in plaid, started buying me dolls.  When I did finally play with them, it was to strap them to some devious contraption I’d concocted from an old roller skate and I’d crash them into walls, or drop them off of cliffs or run over them with my bike. 
When I was a little older I’d make them have orgies with G.I. Joe, Action Man, and Ken.

I loved being outside and in summer, when it was light till late, I’d be outside from early in the morning till late at night, coming home only if I was hungry or thirsty.  I was tall for my age, athletic and sported scabs on my knees for most of my childhood.  I embraced a challenge. I was always falling out of trees and off of swings.

When other little girls were asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, they said “teacher” or “stewardess” or “nurse” or “pop star” whereas my ambition was to be a writer or a truck driver.  I guess those two things go hand in hand!  I’d hand write “novels” in a lined notebook and design my own covers for the outside.  I wanted to travel.  Later I wanted to be a pilot until I figured out I was scared of flying.

I had a big imagination.  I’d ride my bike around and pretend it was a horse, or a car, or that I was on a great adventure, like the sort kids in movies always seemed to have.  I’d climb trees and read among the branches.  I’d act out crazy scenarios in my mind.  I’d carve figures out of Plasticine or clay.

In the summer my grandparents would take me away for weekends by the ocean, in their camper, to give me a break from my more extroverted siblings. I had a strong interest in going places and in the Camper trailer itself.  When I visited their house, I’d pretend the camper was my den.

I’d have mad crushes on boys but they never knew.  I’ve never chased boys.  The ones I’ve had have always just happened, accidentally.  I wasn’t a long-haired, dainty, pretty 12-year-old Lolita that made teenage boys weak at the knees, I was the lanky, messy-haired tomboy who biked everywhere and was taller than most of them.  They never noticed me.  A few years later they were all much taller than me and I had boobs, so the whole dynamic changed.  Despite my huge collection of friends and acquaintances, I was shy but I maintained a wicked sense of humour. 

In my teens I didn’t mind school.  I found it fairly effortless and I was a straight A student.  I had a lot of friends but rarely a “best” friend. I liked my own company. I was interested in languages and screen printing and photography and music.  I rocked quadratic equations.  I sucked enormously at history.  I didn’t mind.

I’d lock myself  in my bedroom in the dark with my headphones on and listen to music.  I mean REALLY listen.  To every instrument, to the vocal, to the lyrics.  I favoured the obscure but I still demanded melody. I thought “mainstream” equated “boring”. 

Things I always had around:  a guitar, a sketch pad. I’d buy vintage clothes from the flea market and alter them to fit me.  I wrote short sci-fi stories. I drew cartoons.

I preferred the geeks to the sporty popular boys.  I wrote my own songs.  I wished I wore glasses.  I dyed my hair pink, then black, then bleached it blonde.

Sometimes I have trouble remembering the old me.  Other times she’s right there in the mirror staring back at me, only now she’s a little more tamed by the bonds of reality that growing up brings. It’s sort of bittersweet.  I’d still like to drive a truck. I still suck at history. I’m still imaginative and in love with creativity. 

I just fall off of swings less often.

Follow This

Everyone’s sure obsessed by “followers”, have you noticed? People have hundreds of followers. And those are just the ones that show up in the sidebar using the Blogger Following option. Which I don’t use. Because I’m special.

Special Ed.

Me, I follow 130 blogs on my Reader yet I don’t count towards anyone’s “followers”. Thanks Blogger. Thanks a lot.

See you reading right now? Yes, you! I probably follow your blog and you don’t even know it. Am I creeping you out now? I’m totally stalking you.

I see people every day trolling for followers like it’s a sign of their self worth and it kind of reminds me of the kid at school who handed out candy because he wanted to be popular. It’s strangely fascinating.

Me, I don’t have many followers and that’s really ok. I looked today precisely for this post and I have 26 followers on my main blog here. But you know what, they’re 26 QUALITY followers. I mean I’d rather have 26 freaking awesome, creative, fabulous followers than 200 bargain basement followers, with cooties, you know? When I get my pimped out Airstream? All 26 of you magnificent beasts are invited to help me christen it with debauchery.

Hmmm. Wait a minute though. My Google Reader stats tells me I have 97 people actually subscribed to the shite quality prose that I write. Isn’t that crazy? So actually I have 97 quality, awesome, creative, fabulous followers. I’m not sure I can fit 97 people in an Airstream. The debauchery will have to spill out into the yard! Bring your own chairs. And beer.

*note - I now appear to have guilted 2 of you guys into becoming followers and am at 28. I can achieve my dream of my own private Waco, sooner than anticipated! Unless you're totally fucking with me to mess up my figures. Jezebels.


I wonder who came up with the term “followers” and didn’t find it totally creepy? They couldn’t just have gone with “blog buddies” or “friends” or “interested parties”?

So hi followers! I’m like Charles Manson. Only without the beard. Or the murder in my heart. Or a penis. Or the crazy eyes.

OK, I have the crazy eyes…