In addition to the usual Lyme issues-fatigue, memory loss, visual dysfunction (read: blurry as fuck), excessive sweating, and general fucked-up-ness-I seem to have also begun losing my ability to write as well as before.
I still have the ability to navigate the they’re/their/there issue, although I will admit I have to think about it more than usual. But simple words are becoming difficult for me-I have a hard time with choose/chose now. I may forget how to spell a simple word. I am becoming confused by the affect/effect conundrum. And, I don’t even want to look this shit up, because my comprehension is going, as well. So, no big trips to IKEA soon, for fear I will create a primitive torture device, rather than the 471-EZ-step EXCANDUT bookcase with deep espresso-mayo-taco finish.
All this, and the minuscule filter I used to have seems to be disappearing faster than a keg of Coors at a Midwest family reunion. To top it off, it seems the screening for running a group of Girl Scouts doesn’t quite scratch the surface of personality flaws. Not only do they encourage me to lead these girls, but these same government officials allow me to volunteer at my kids’ school, AND run a successful child care center. The Department of Justice must not look into these matters very seriously.
Speaking of tacos, I fear that my inability to provide a wholesome environment for children is also slipping through my fingers, much like dollar-store lube.
Da-wha-ha? You might say.
Well, I *might* have given a frightened future Middle Schooler some less-than-stellar advice. I know, right? Hard to believe.
Here’s the setting:
A bunch of us bad influences were camping with a bunch of people who should have known better. The people that should have known better brought their kids (including me, allegedly). One of these kids may have talked about being slightly nervous about starting Middle School with a whole new group of friends. We all tried our very best to help offering keen tidbits of advice. We are awesome like that. For instance:
Someone with bad judgment: Act crazy. Talk to yourself, so no one will fuck with you.
Some other moron in the group: Stick to yourself. Find a friend, hide in lockers if you need to.
(Possibly) me: Find the biggest ugliest bitch there, walk right up to her, and give her a giant taco punch. That way, they will know you are not to be fucked with.
She might have asked what that meant. Or, the school system in her state is better than the one in California, and she knew what a taco punch was. Incidentally, should taco punch be hyphenated? Taco-punch. I don’t know what the hyphenation rules are.
Later when I got home from the trip, I had a family member call me. This was our conversation:
Her: You are sooo bad.
Her: Umm, my kid wants to know what a cock ring is. Are you sure you should have her on your Facebook?
Me: No, not really. I may need to address that, I had a similar conversation with another relative just last week. Do you want me to un-friend her?
Her: No, it’s fine; as long as the cock ring stuff is over.
Me: I can’t promise that.
The week prior I had another relative remind me that her oldest was my friend. I think it’s time to un-friend these fine upstanding (for now) citizens before they choose to follow in my horrifically inappropriate footsteps.
What do you think? Should I limit membership to the Awesome Aimee Fan Club to those that are already tainted by societal perversion? Or should these fine young women and men get to benefit from all my amazing years of experience. And warnings. And horrifyingly inappropriate stories….