Exhibit A

Here's the thing... I'm not sure I've ever been described as nice. And certainly not kind. These are things that I aspire to. Sort of. Some of the time I don't really care. Ah, most of the time.

Now, some of you are probably thinking. 'Wait a minute, she's pretty nice and funny.'

But, what if you rethink whatever I said to you and strip off the 'funny'? It's mean. It's also probably true, but don't feel too bad about yourself. I'm an equal offender. 

When describing myself I usually say, 'Often mistaken for funny.' It's right there on my bio. I don't lie about it. I'm an asshole. I'm taking that word by the way. I hate the whole women are bitchy, men are assholes thing. Taking it. I can be a bitch too - bitches get stuff done. So, I'm not really offended if someone calls me that. But, I think I prefer the sturdiness of asshole. It's not as shrill. Or something. Not sure. But I like it better and thus, taking it.

And so for those of you who don't believe my asshole-ness... I present Exhibit A. I've been an asshole since I was a small child... 

Adorable.

On my third birthday some horrible adult gave me a Jack-In-The-Box. This can only be described as a torture device for small children. Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-di-da... and BAM it shoots a freakin' clown in your face. I'm not sure who thought this was a good gift for children but I'm sure that they now sit at the right hand of Satan.

Seriously. The Jack-In-The-Box inventor was a psychopath. 

Jaded for life. Thanks Jack-In-The-Box!

The evil clown lived in its box on the bookshelf in my bedroom. For a couple years. Maybe more. I left him trapped in there unable to breathe. He never died. Never.

In addition to being as asshole, or maybe its just a symptom... I'm also horribly greedy. I really like things. My things. Shiny things. And even though I hated that bastard clown in a box I didn't want anyone else to have it. 

My mother went through my room and cleared out the things that I never played with for a 'gently used' toy drive. That clown wasn't even gently used, it was NEVER used. And, so into the bag it went and off to church. This was an act of kindness, or something. I don't know. I don't follow...  But somewhere in there the piece I was supposed to learn was lost. 

All the toys were in a bin near the front of the church and the preacher was talking about something. I'm sure it was relevant to giving or sharing or something. The Bastard-Clown-Toddler-Torture-Device caught my eye. Wait a minute... Is that MY Bastard-Clown-Toddler-Torture-Device?

And thus, to my mother's horror, I charged down the aisle of the church. Small but mighty. Slightly angry. Everyone in the congregation gasped as I grabbed the Jack-In-The-Box out of the bin while yelling at the top of my lungs, "I'm not giving my toys to poor kids!"

I also called the Sunday school teacher a big mean fat lady... but that's another story. 

We changed churches shortly after, but I'm sure it's unrelated.