In preschool one of the teachers (who was a friend of my parents) decided to play a game, she called it “what are your parents hobbies”. I went first, and said, “my dad’s hobby is rolling joints.” That was the end of that game.
I rolled a joint earlier today.
It was my ankle. Still limping.
My cousin taught me a word the night before that meant fart. So, I used it the next day in class when I was telling a joke about how I farted. Yeah, queef doesn’t quite mean what I thought it meant.
In kindergarten, I was in a pencil-sharpening contest with 2 girls. They colluded to say I lost, and my sense of justice was insulted. So I declared that “girls are toilets” and spent the next hour in time-out.
They colluded to say I lost
I retroactively absolve of your sin. Those two girls absolutely were being toilets.
When I was little, I acted out cartoon violence by poking a girl’s butt with a stick and the teacher told me that I was in trouble for reasons that I would understand when I was older.
That’s unfair. If they thought you had done something wrong, they should explain to you then what it is.
Poking people with sticks was against the rules of recess and I knew that, so I didn’t feel that I was punished unfairly. The teacher did let me know that the way that I did it was especially against the rules, but she didn’t punish me more because of that.
Being a child of immigrants, neither I nor my parents were aware that there were connotations to my super awesome purple shirt with a giant glittery “69” written on the front. It was so cheap, and way better quality than any of the other clothes we could afford. I wore it proudly at least once a week from grades 3 to 6. I visited multiple friends’ houses and parents wearing it because it was my best shirt. No one said anything about it.
