This F*cking Week.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog post. In this post, I shared my frustration with the country and my lack of pride in America at the time. I will not ask for a 'take-back' of that, nor will I apologize for it. It's how I felt, and I shared it with you.

HOWEVER.

Here I sit, several weeks later, in tears. This (excuse my language, but this week deserves this intensity) fucking week has been absolute hell. I feel like every day this week, I woke up and was greeted with some sort of heinous, sad, troubling news. But tonight, I do not feel sad, nor troubled, but proud.

Let me just say that I HATE this week. I hate it. But mostly, I hate the last 10 years of the world. How is it that we have children alive on this planet that have never known a day in their short, precious lives that 9/11 didn't exist? That the Iraq and Afghanistan Wars don't exist. That the Syrian conflict doesn't exist. That every school shooting, plus the Aurora, CO movie theater shooting, and we'll just throw in Columbine for good measure - and because countless people suffered and parished that day, tomorrow in fact, as well - doesn't exist. And now this.

Are you serious right now that this is real?! The 26th mile of this epic event was dedicated to Newtown. Newtown. Remember that event? I couldn't stop crying.

It's not enough that we're living in a world where kids are alive that don't know a world without this terror and horror, but 20 of those sweet angels went to Heaven that day. I'm not God, so I don't know for sure, but I'm willing to bet that He wasn't quite ready for those 20 babies to make it to Heaven that soon.

Then there's this week. This amazing, annual, exciting event that brings together thousands, millions of people from around the world. And the last mile was dedicated to those that perished in the Sandy Hook shooting, and what happens? People get blown up.

So I'm just going to say it.

Fuck you, Tsarnaev brothers.

It makes me nauseous to even refer to you by your name, and not the disgusting, low life, pathetic pieces of shit you really are, but I suppose I will.

You selfishly took something that wasn't just important to the American people, but the world, and you attempted to tarnish it. Attempted. 

But shame on you for being so blind during all the years you spent here. Have you ever taken a look around?

Americans are pretty bad ass. We're also politically charged, disagreeing idiots, but we're mostly bad ass. And you think you can just come in and try to ruin something because of whatever silly, asinine reason you'll come up with?!

Please, bitches.

A few weeks ago, I was not proud of this country. I looked around me and saw a hot mess. A. HOT. MESS.

Monday, I looked at my computer screen, and saw the destruction that happened in Boston. Tuesday, I couldn't pull my eyes away from the stories. The heartbreak, the loss of limb, of life. Wednesday, I saw the explosion in Texas, and tried to absorb the destruction. Thursday, I saw flooding in the midwest. In the city where my heart lives, Chicago. In states where people couldn't get help, and suffered gravely because of it. And this morning. This morning I woke up to the agony of the chase. The sadness of Sean Collier's death. The reminder of Martin Richard, Krystle Campbell, and Lu Lingzi. And the countless people in hospital beds all around Boston, trying to figure out how to put their lives back together. How to tackle their tomorrows.

I finally walked away. I couldn't do it anymore. I'm not in Boston. Or Texas. Or Chicago. I'm here, in California. So I did the only thing I knew to do, give blood.

After I got home, the chase began again. They cornered him.

Coward.

You hide in a boat?

Coward.

You blow people up, kill people, and you hide?

Coward.

But you grossly underestimated this country. Not just the city you picked to attack, but this country.

This was one of the worst weeks we've seen in a long, long time. Not one that will go forgotten, that's for sure. But you know what?

It was also beautiful.

In the videos replayed on a loop from the bombings, and we've heard it all week, you can see people running toward, not away from, those injured. We saw Carlos, a cowboy-hat-wearing man running next to Jeff Bauman, a man with both his legs blown off, holding Jeff's artery with his fingers. We saw dozens of people rushing to help, with absolutely no concern for their own safety. We had marathon runners running extra miles to the hospitals to give blood. We've seen countless sites created for donations to victim's causes, or medical care funds.

We saw loss of selfless life in Texas, when first responders were searching for life, risking their own. We saw lay people and law enforcement alike helping those trapped by floods.

Flowers, signs from abroad sending love, tweets from afar sending prayers, closed eyes with heads held high that we will prevail. Patton Oswalt took the time to write this gem of a status. Thousands of law enforcement officials, both federal and local, came together and put aside years of one-upping to capture this terrorist and bring a town to at least an evening of rest.

I'm nothing special. I'm just your average American. Much like those people we saw on TV running toward the victims, running toward the hospitals, opening their homes to people who were hungry or cold or needed a wall outlet. All of these people's first thought's were, 'how can I help?' That's why I gave blood. Because I wanted to help.

HELP.

Because that's what this country has learned. If we're going anywhere, gaining forward momentum, we've got to help one another. We've got to follow our instincts and not let the first thing we think of be ourselves. Jeff Bauman wouldn't be alive today if Carlos Arredondo didn't risk his life to save him. I'm sure some of the survivors in West, TX wouldn't be alive if someone didn't put themselves second and go rescue them.

No one cared this week about your political stance, or where in this country you came from, or how much money you make, or what sports team you root for. This week, all over the country, newspapers, twitter feeds, websites, all read one thing. WE ARE BOSTON. WE ARE TEXAS.

We are America.

And I couldn't be more proud.

Bubble face

Hello again! My sincerest apologies for the length of time between blogs....I apparently fell off the proverbial wagon or whatever. But I'm back! (For those of you chomping at the bit for my next blog? How disgustingly arrogant of me....anyway)

Two weeks ago, I was in South Carolina for my niece's 1st birthday. HOLY CRAP SHE'S ONE THAT'S INSANE. Anyhow....the weather was weird, as it is this time of year below the Mason Dixon Line, and the day of sweet little Clara's party...

Ahhhhhhh!!! Cake!!

This one is just for good measure to show you "how big" Clara is now!!!

Ok, apologies. I really can't help myself. The pictures don't even do her justice. This kid is a little precious ham.  Love her face.

Ok.....so anyhow, the day of her partay, it was GORGEOUS!!!  And I wore a dress, which is a HUGE deal, as I don't generally do those types of things...

I have blog ADD right now....so sorry. Anyway, the dress is/was irrelevant, but I looked cute, so whatever.

I chose, on this day, to ignore my Irish/Swedish/French heritage, and try to defy the sun. I failed. I ended up rather pink red by the end of this shindig, and it was painful. My mom was scratching applying fresh aloe vera to my burns later that evening, when I was reminded of an awesome thing that happened to me when I was 13.

And by awesome, I mean awful. And by 13, I mean highly impressionable, very sensitive, teenager.

So, I used to be friends with this girl. We'll call her Apple. Yes, Apple. Mostly because she's NOT Gwyneth Paltrow's child, no one else would name their child that name, and also because the only person whose situations I'd like to exploit in this blog are mine (and sometimes my sister's, when appropriate).

Ok, so Apple and I used to be great friends, and spent a lot of time at each other's house. Like Monica and Rachel, but without all the super fun, quippy dialogue, and awesome 90's outfits. 

Over the summer, before we started high school, Apple invited me to come along on a trip to Myrtle Beach with her mom and mom's friend. It was to be a super awesome friend bonding exciting outside sunshiney weekend. And I.  Was. STOKED. I had never been to Myrtle, and was insanely excited to get back by the water where I felt at home (we had just moved back to South Carolina the summer prior to this one, from a small island in Georgia. I missed having sunkissed skin and Barbie blonde hair, but mostly I missed the freedom of the wide open ocean, the way the salt water mussed your hair up, and, quite obviously, dolphins - see previous posts if confused).

We did the little road trip and sang songs and woo hoo, windows down, chicks going to the beach.

SO EXCITED PEOPLE.

Two things that I've told you are of the UTMOST importance in this story:

1. I moved from GA the previous summer. Sunkissed skin disappears and your hair turns that ugly brown/blonde it was before, and you turn into a pasty human again.
2. I am of Irish/Swedish/French (also English and German, but they tan well, so whatever) descent. These genes have only gotten more intense as I've aged, and I'm sure I'm blinding people on the daily in LA with my translucent skin. 

For those now confused, Irish/Swedish/French people don't tan very well. Somehow my sister got some gene that my dad has that allows them to tan beautifully. I, on the other hand, only had a brief and spectacular love affair with the perfect tan. Now I just have freckles. And when I get in the sun, I don't get tan, I get more freckles. It's precious. 

Not.

Ok, back to Myrtle. We get to this little cute cabin/house/trailer thing we're staying in, and Apple and I take off to the beach. Our little weird sleeping quarters were just that, weird, but also, amazingly like 20 feet from the beach.

It's also important that you note that I like sunscreen. 70SPF, stuff you use for babies, sunscreen. It didn't take long for this bottle of Elmer's to understand that when I get burnt, it's awful and painful and sucks for so long, so I applied generously, and proceeded to swim. And swim. And swim. We must have spent at least 6 hours frolicking in oceanic glory before Apple's mom summoned us back to the weird quarters to shower and get ready for dinner.

We go to dinner, get back and are super tuckered, as we spent a LONG time in the sun, and as you know, that makes you sleepy. Lots of Vitamin D in exchange for your energy. The sun is a pseudo-generous Succubus (thank you, "Lost Girl", for that reference).

Ok, so please remember that I'm 13 at this time and 13 year olds are in constant battle with their faces. They are constantly doing things to attempt to avoid zits. 

I am a smart 13 year old and have been around the block enough to know that while sunscreen is your BFF against skin cancer and all that jazz, it is NOT kind on your pores.

We're getting ready for bed, and I brush my teeth and wash my face. Apple and I get in bed and pass out in 2.4 seconds. What a good day.

The next morning, I awaken feeling....odd. My eyes are puffy and I feel REALLY thirsty. 

1. I am a walking allergy test. If i'm allergic to something, my body's initial response is to create a hive, or a series of, to alert me to stay away. Shortly after, my eyes are puffy and itchy and I need a Claritin or a Zyrtec, or worst case, a Benadryl and a nice long sleep.
2. The sun also sucks all your hydration.

These numbers serve only to tell you that I wasn't THAT concerned about these facts. Until I went to rub my eyes.

I reached up, and suddenly was stricken with panic. I could feel weird bumps on my face. OH EM GEE GUYS I HAD A FACE FULL OF PIMPLES.

False.

Face full of pimples would have been a gift. No no. Apparently I wasn't that smart of a 13 year old because I didn't do the:

                               6 hours in the sun (sun burn) + face wash with salicylic acid =

                                        BLISTERS EVERYWHERE ON YOUR FACE

math equation that I should have. It was awful. I ran to the bathroom and my face looked like a balloon covered in tiny clear grapes. It hurt so much and was so swollen. I started to cry - mistake. So painful.

Called mom. Freaking out. Can't complete sentences.

In bathroom. Crying. Whyisthishappeningtome?! Mylifeishorrible!

Finally, Apple wakes up. She is trying to calm me down, to no avail. My mom is trying to calm me down on the phone, but nothing is working. Apple's mom wakes up. Tries to calm me down. Doesn't work.

HOT. ASS. MESS.

Finally, I chill out. I put a cold wash cloth on my face and take some deep breaths. Eventually, the day begins. We eat breakfast. Yadda yadda. 

I, apparently, have overestimated how awesome of a friend Apple really is, as she only had maybe 2 hours of sympathy for my plight. After that, she was BEGGING me to go back to the beach. I kept resisting, naturally, as I took a moment to do the math of this bubble face + more sun = ? Death? I'm not sure, but it could not be pretty.

Also, hat wearing was out of the question, as whatever brim existed would just rub on the forehead bubbles, making me miserable.

I'll just wrap this Apple vs. Candice argument up like this:

• Apple is being unsympathetic.
• Candice urges her to go to beach with her mom.
• Apple says that is dumb, Candice should go with.
• Candice pleads. She will stay and read. It will be fun.
• Apple wins. Candice goes to beach.

This ends even worse, because I was really feeling strongly that sitting on the beach in the sun would leave me with the same result that would have happened if Katniss had run INTO the cornucopia instead of away from it. So I went swimming. I cried my little salty tears into the ocean, and prayed that the dolphins would fix my face. Ok, I didn't. I actually prayed that God would fix it because OMG I WOULD HAVE TAKEN PIMPLES. SRSLY.

Great news. Swimming, also not a great idea. Avoiding UVA/UVB and salt water would have been the winner in this competition. 

The muddled, nonsensical, pathetic details of the next day or two - yes, I spent more time crying into the ocean, courtesy of Apple's beach-time insistence - don't matter. What matters is this.

By the time we left Myrtle Beach (THANK YOU BABY JESUS IN A TUXEDO SHIRT IT'S OVER), my face looked like one giant scab. Imagine that guy from "Hannibal". What was his name? Mason Verger. Yes. Post Hannibal eating his face off. Delete the fact that I actually didn't have my lips eaten, my eyes were still very much intact, and the general creepiness of the idea that Verger's face was EATEN OFF, and that was me. 

Hold please. That was quite possibly the most ridiculous hyperbole I've ever used in my life. My face wasn't that bad, just really really really scabby. I just feel this embarrassing event is WAY better if I dramatically over exaggerate the happenings.

Ok, let's wrap this business up. We stopped at a MALL on the way back. Which, when you're 13 is the BEST THING EVER, unless you look like you're slowly morphing into The Fly, then it is quite possibly the worst thing that could happen to you.

Small children were pointing and staring, and I made a serious decision that me and Apple's friendship needed to abruptly end. I then reconsidered, until I had to go to the dentist the day after I returned from the most awesome horrifying trip of my life and couldn't open my mouth wide enough for the hygienist to do her job without flaking half my scab-face off.

The dentist is miserable enough. Your face flaking off with each tooth scrape? Apple, we're done. 

So folks, the next time you decide to max out your Vitamin D exposure for the day, do yourself the favor of reading all the ingredients in whatever you're going to put on your skin. And if you find yourself questioning whether one of the ingredients might put a hurting on you, remember this:

                        (certain) face wash + sunburn = Mason Verger.

Nerd Kiss

I'm repulsively in love. It's gross. Every love song on the radio and every mushy chick flick sends me into little floating heart fits of giddiness. I sometimes write disgusting Facebook stati about how in love I am, and for once, I'm not sorry about it.

This is my 7th blog post. And since 7 is Keri's favorite number, I thought I'd tell you a little story about believing in that life-changing, world-altering love story that we all love to hate. Because it's real. Because it happened to me.

Keri and I met just about 4.5 years ago, playing dodgeball. I was in a good place, not looking for anything magical, just looking to make friends and play a sweet sport.

I won't say it was love at first sight, that would be lying. I definitely thought to myself 'hey self, that's a pretty lady over there', but I wasn't in "love" the night we met. We didn't really have a "courtship", if I can use such an outdated word that seems only applicable to princes and princesses, but rather, we became a living example of the old lesbian adage, "what does a lesbian bring to a second date?"

Answer: A u-haul.

If you don't understand, just ask, I'll explain it.

We'll avoid too many details, but Keri and I spent an evening hanging out and the next morning, she left for a week for Christmas. I have never texted as much as I did that next week in my entire life. The weird thing is, I knew I was in trouble before she even got on that plane. We knew each other for just over a week before I fell for her. And I fell hard.

Gross, I know.

I am a hopeless romantic. For the longest time, I had genuinely convinced myself that romance and love weren't real unless they ended like Sleepless in Seattle. Then I became an angry, cynical teenager who grew into a young twenty-something that realized all of that is just Hollywood magic. Created purely so we can all live vicariously through characters whose portrayer's love lives were just as miserable as the rest of us.

Then I met Keri. And it was over. I was done. She was the closest to "you had me at hello" I'll ever get, and I'd venture to say that she had me at "hey again". And I wouldn't be lying.

I just recently finished the book What Dreams May Come, arguably one of the best pieces of literature I've ever read, so read it.

No, seriously. Write down on whatever "Books I should read list" you have, and write it down. Then pull that sweet move that Netflix let's you do on your instant queue, and bump that sucker to the #1 spot. You will in no way be disappointed.

Excellent. Now that that is done. Moving on.

It talks about soul mates.

Soul mates.

Such a weird subject when you think about it in the beautifully Western-world way we've learned to.

The book says that soul mates are two beings whose astral vibrations are the same. Like a melody, not complete until both parts are working together. I don't know how to feel about soul mates in the context with which I was first introduced, but there's something about the idea that soul mates are two people who are meant to bring this sweet melody to the world together that just makes sense.

Keri is my harmony. Sometimes there's dissonance, but overall, the song we bring to the world is beautiful, and I couldn't imagine the emptiness that would occur if I were to lose that other chord.

Wo.

This has all gotten very metaphorical and insanely mushy.

Let's Harlem Shake this business back to Earth.

Nerd Kiss.

My blog. All about experiences that have been ridiculous and silly and sometimes embarrassing, but have shown me something that the universe wanted to me see. So of course, my little love story wouldn't be any different.

I named my blog Nerd Kiss because it is the thing that sums up my life.

It's perfect, in all it's imperfection, and I wouldn't change it.

Here's where it came from:

Keri and I both have terrible eyesight. It's ghastly. There are glasses on each bedside table, and tiny screwdrivers in a lot of our junk drawers. Glasses cases in drawers, and contact solution in bulk under the sink.

When we're at home (when we lived in the same place), we normally wear our glasses. We had been dating for a few weeks, and we were lounging at home, watching movies or being silly or something, and I wanted to give her a kiss. So I leaned over for a kiss, and instead, was greeted with a 'klink'. Our glasses impeded the kiss. How nerdly precious. So we laughed about it, and Keri says 'aww, nerd kiss!'. It was so perfectly indicative of our relationship.

Adorable, but nerdy and perfectly imperfect.

The night that I decided to write this blog, I was so excited that I had come up with the 'theme' or whatever, and I was telling her about it. I told her that I just didn't know what to call it. I went to give her a kiss, and in the process, we had a nerd kiss. That was it.

You'll never see something that dorky in a movie, unless it's staring Patrick Fugit and Ellen Page, and is being produced by Focus Features....ok, you might see it.

But I certainly never saw it in any of the mushy chick flicks I grew up pining over. The first time it happened, I just remember thinking how perfect it was. That our relationship wasn't perfect, my life certainly wasn't perfect, but that one little thing was so perfectly us.

I just realized that I'm using the word perfect, or some variation of it, a lot in this blog. I'd apologize, but I'm not totally sorry, and I'm certainly not going to Thesaurus my face off to give you something more eloquent to read. I'm not perfect, and I'm also not Shakespeare. So excuse that transgression, and enjoy the rest of this.

That day, and every time a nerd kiss happens, I'm reminded of how beautiful the little imperfections of our lives are. I used to hate wearing glasses, but if I didn't wear them, there would be no nerd kisses. No reminders to embrace the little gifts that make you you.

My love story isn't chalk full of grandiose gestures and dozens of roses, nor fake orgasms in a cafe, or kisses atop the Empire State Building. No. Instead, it's full of so much more.

Of nerd kisses and sweet paintings with hidden meanings. Of 'please listen to this song I love it so much', and late night gigglefests when we should be sleeping. Of passion and understanding. Of dreams and desires. Of support - the best word I can find, although it doesn't even adequately encompass what she does for me - and of love. Not always mushy, gross, sweet nothings type of love. But a love that lasts ages. Love that is honest and kind, understanding and stern, and love that expects nothing. Nothing but me and nothing but her. No false pretenses, no expectations, no hidden truths.

Just me and her and the melody we make together.

And a whole lifetime of Nerd Kisses.

Lucky

My best friend is my younger sister, Stephanie. You can read her blog here. It's lovely, mostly about the happenings in her beautiful life, and stories about my niece. Who, just so you know, is the most precious tiny human on the planet.

See.

Ok. Now that that is out of the way. I've lost my train of thought. BUT LOOK AT HER SHE IS PERFECT.

Found it.

Ok, so Steph and I have grown very close over the last 5 or 10 years, and I don't know where I'd be without her. When we were younger, we "hated" each other. No siblings really hate each other - correction, maybe there are some that actually do, but I digress. There is that period of time in your life where they are more of a nuisance than something to be celebrated.

Steph and I had that, absolutely. We'd be fine one second, and the next I was threatening to push her down the stairs (I was a total asshole peach of a big sister). As we got older, our fights got bigger, and sometimes even involved pushing and shoving and slapping and sometimes your little sister gets mad and digs her fingernails into your skin so hard that you bleed. But I'm totally not bitter.*

Why am I droning on and on about our childhood nonsense and antics? 

Answer: I've been given some information recently that has brought to my attention how special our bond really is.

When I say special, I mean that in the most...I can't explain how I actually mean it, but here's the little ditty I just learned about.

Steph and I have a family member that is sort of harsh. That's really all I'll say, as I'm trying to do this new thing where I try to be a really good person. Alright, so my family (dad, mom, me, sister) lived with...

I need to interrupt this because I turned on the Backstreet Boys Pandora channel to bring back this era of my life, and O-Town's "All or Nothing" just came on. You're welcome for that reminder that that groupy existed.

OK, so my family lived with this family member (it's a grandparent...I'm going to screw up by the end of this and air it all out) a couple of separate times. This grandparent has one room in their house totally devoted to dolls. Not presh little Cabbage Patch dolls, I'm talking Chuckie meets some trippy version of Teddy Ruxpin and his creepy tagalong friend, Grubby. Look, Teddy Rux and Grubbster were a good time in the daylight, talking and making you LOL, but I'm telling you right now, those lights go out, and your worst nightmare is coming true. So there were those, plus an entire wall, an infinite wall if you will, draped in cabinets that were overflowing with porcelain dolls. Those creepy ones whose eyes always eerily shift in the quietest moments of a scary movie. The white faced terrors of my worst nightmares.

To say we hated this room was a ridiculous understatement. I would have volunteered to sleep in Freddy Kreuger's lair if it meant I could avoid the doll room. 

Would you guys mind if I took that back?  I am, in very real ways, absolutely terrified of Freddy Kreuger, so I'd like to renege that previous statement.

We'll just say I would have rather slept in a wet hot dog bun than in the doll room. Just think about that for just one second. A wet hot dog bun. Ew.

Steph and I didn't agree on much around this time in our lives, but the doll room, we totally agreed on. We would go to bed together and leave the room at the same time in the morning. It did not matter if the other was tired at night or not done sleeping in the morning, it was a pact. We wouldn't let the other be in that room alone. 

Just for reference, this story starts in the afternoon, circa 1993ish. I was somewhere around 7 or 8 years old, and Steph was 5 or 6. The deets are a bit vague, as I had forgotten this event even occurred until a few days ago.

Ok, you should also know that Steph and I would actually stick together when we had to stay at this relative's house. If I spent time explaining why, we'd be here for days, but just know it was a necessity for the two of us to be on the same team. There's power in numbers and all that jazz.

Wait. NSYNC's "This I Promise You" just came on. I'm living my tweens all over again.

Odd, this song starts off, "when the visions around you bring tears to your eyes...", which reminds me an awful lot of the doll room.

Again, I digress. Ok, so here's what we've established:

• Circa 1993
• I'm around 7 or 8
• Steph's around 5 or 6
• We're working together to combat not-kind relative
• We've spent an afternoon playing

This particular relative is mean. And they were not too keen on you walking through their house after you'd been in the pool if you were the LEAST bit drippy. I cannot say for sure, and I don't like to lie, but I'm pretty sure we got in trouble that afternoon, because one of the two of us dripped pool water on the carpet.

I'm telling you. I want to make reference to a Nazi war camp type setting, but I'm really feeling like that might be inappropriate. Look, we were in Sing Sing, except we had a pool and a doll room to "enjoy".**

So we're going to bed that night, pretty irked that we got in trouble, and we walk into the dark doll room. I really just cannot emphasize how intensely horrifying this room was. I wish I had a photo. Anyway.

So the middle of the night, I wake up, soaked. I have a really vivid imagination, and used to have nightmares, so it's not uncommon to wake up soaked from sweating. Night terrors, no joke. So, I'm soaking wet, and Steph wakes up, and I'm all ahh, I'm soaked. She's like, you're sweating, shut up.

That's the story. Boring.

Here's how that conversation in the middle of the night SHOULD have gone.

ME: Ahhh, I'm soaked. What the heck?!

STEPH: Yea, I peed the bed because I was mad and I hate the doll room.

ME: YOU PEED ON ME?!

STEPH: Yes. Shut up.

The other day, I'm skyping with Steph, and somehow this story gets brought up. I had forgotten about it, because I've woken up sweating from nightmares or being hot or whatever, a zillion times. No no, she says, she peed the bed cause she was mad.

My sister peed on me, and not in the Chandler peed on Monica kind of way. No, she just peed on me to smite the unnamed relative. And maybe piss off (see what I did there?) the dolls.

Either way, here we are on skype, and she is crying laughing, and I'm reminded of the time I thought my dog, Princey, had gone to a farm because he bit someone, only to find out 9 years later my parents put him to sleep. So either one of two things is true: I'm insanely gullible or I'm surrounded by jerks. I'm tempted to say B, but I'll give the benefit of the doubt and go with the former. 

So the next time you wake up soaked from a "bad dream" or "hormones", question the person sleeping next to you. They may have peed on you because you upset them. Suggestion: take a quick second to do a little sniff sniff and make sure you've not just convinced yourself that you're some sort of over sweat producing freak, when in actuality, someone has golden showered you without your consent.

Almost one year ago, my sister gave birth to my sweet niece, Clara (see above photo). Clara was so tiny and so perfect, and my dream of becoming an auntie had finally come to fruition. So, with permission from mom and dad, I changed one of her first diapers. And she pooped on my hand.

I guess it's true what they say...

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

_______________________________________________________________________________

*I'm really not bitter at all. Now we laugh about it. Besides, I told on her and she got in such an immense amount of trouble that I ended up sort of feeling bad for her.

**Perhaps too far, but if you know me, I'm not so good at knowing where lines are so, yeah.