I plowed through the baby canal back in a little year I like to call 1979 and was caught by the clammy, yet inviting, hands of hyperbole.
After deciding to keep me, my mother dubbed me Erin. I have been writing unprofessionally since elementary school, where I’d scribble out short stories on the backs of dittos (Remember dittos?) and the teachers would be all, “Oh girl, you so good” but my class mates all thought I was fucking weird.
My birth father died when I was three and my mom remarried shortly thereafter, creating a childhood full of lively “You’re not my dad!” dysfunction. My fourth year was my favorite because it would prove to be my last year as an only child.
When I was 15, my mom called the police on my ass because I locked myself in my room and threw on some Bone Thugs n Harmony. Clearly I was either trying to slit my wrists or shoot up. Or both. They actually took me to the hospital in an ambulance, which is a scene too dramatic even for this drama queen. After that, I started going to therapy. My mom was convinced my mental health had plummeted because of a boy, but it would turn out that bi-polarism was the main culprit, with a little bit of anxiety and explosive anger disorder tossed in. Funniest thing, it was. I used to take Zoloft, not because it helped balance me out, but because I lost a shit-ton of weight on it. Now I’m unmedicated, because I love the highs too much. (Although, the lows are pretty fucking fierce. But that’s when I get my painting done, yo.)
My grandfather died when I was 16 and I still haven’t recovered. A year later, I dropped of high school. I had one month left, and was on the honor roll. That’s normal, right?
In 2001, I met Henry. We worked together at the meat place. He was a lowly delivery driver, and I ran the office. In the summer of 2002, we had what was supposed to be nothing more than a one-night stand, my grand conquering of an older man. But then he got all obsessed with me and wouldn’t leave me alone. Who can blame him? Four years later, our son Riley was born. From the bat, we started calling him Chooch (sounds like ‘butch’ with a ch sound). There’s no significance, no heavenly meaning behind it — it just is what it is. Now my whole family and all of my friends call him Chooch. He calls himself Chooch. Henry’s family calls him Riley. They failed to join the club.
Did you know that if you Google “sewing up her vagina” and “dickgagger,” you can find my blog?
I can’t cook. Nor do I ever really want to. And I don’t like Weezer, though people always expect me to and I don’t get it.
I met and kissed Richard Simmons when I was 4; it was hot. I mean, as hot as a regular four-year-old could gauge a kiss. I couldn’t understand though why my grandfather called him a fruitcake.
Perhaps I’m too “old” for it, but I really feel like I would die without screamo.
Also to be enjoying: Horror movies, photography, cemeteries, and singing songs from Rocky Horror Picture Show while ascending hills on roller coasters, though not necessarily on the same day.No tags for this post.