Lady and the Tramp

I should probably mention that this event takes place many years back, when I was quite a lot younger and still in my awkward phase, during which I loved Crocs, cats, and still thought having a bigger chest than everyone else was something to be ashamed of. So to make a story short, fourth grade. A shameful and emotionally scarring time.

One night, while eating a hearty dinner of chicken and mash potatoes with my family, I decided that I was perfectly capable of drinking my glass of water like a lady. After years of blundering through forests, talking faster than my mouth was able to form words, and tripping over my own feet daily, I'm not sure how I came to such a conclusion. But I did, and I was damn well going to drink my water as if I had been raised for the sole purpose of proving my ladylikeness in that moment.

Delicately, I raised my water glass (which happened to be far to big for my fourth grader fingers) as high as I could manage without spilling a drop, and I raised my pinky in the air as if I was a British lady drinking tea with a group of my fellow ladies, who I didn't necessarily like but was obliged to spend time with because all ladies are required to sip tea with other ladies so they can use unnecessarily large words and fight amongst eachother about which one of them was a better pianist and who writes the longest letter in the best handwriting. Anyhow, I raised my glass, made sure my pinky was erect and noticeable, then announced to my family: "LOOK! I'm a lady!" in a rather unladylike fashion. Trying to keep my feeble nine-year-old pinky from sinking down. I was so focused on my pinky, and trying not to drop the glass due to my lack of a full grip on it that I forgot to pay attention to how I was tilting the glass. I had turned it practically upside down in my struggles, and it wasn't against my lips. Unfortunately for poor me, pre-trampy Tramp, I didn't realize that until after the icy water poured out of the glass, completely drenching my face, hair, the front of my shirt, my mother's table, chairs, and hardwood floor.

By the time I finished cleaning up my mess, changing my clothes, and drying my face, I had concluded that the life of a lady was not for me. Alas, I learned from this traumatic experience in my life. It would seem that fate prefers me on the less-classy side of the bargain. I am meant to be a Tramp, not a Lady, and so a Tramp is what I shall be. And I assure you that I shall never -ever- raise my pinky while drinking again.

Yours,
Lady Tramp

Tramp's 1st rant: How Blogging is Going to Get Me Put in a Mental Instituiton

Hello world.
I'm feeling like blogging today. I like the idea of blogging.
I just totally realized the entire point behind blogging. This is just my excuse to talk to myself.
Seriously just think about it for a second. No one's actually reading what I'm writing. I'm the only one reading what I'm writing. That's pretty much the equivalent to talking to yourself, I'd say. And that's the point of blogging: When you're blogging your thoughts, you trick yourself into believing that you aren't talking to yourself. So blogging is basically just a cover up for the fact that you're talking to yourself. It's like a form of denial. Right now I suppose I'm denying the fact that I'm crazy, because if someone came up to me and was like "You're crazy." I could just be like "Uh, I don't think so. I blog. I don't talk to myself. You're clearly the crazy one." And then they would leave and possibly check you into a mental instituiton, and then the therapist would be all "And how does blogging make you feel?" And you'd be all "Like I'm not crazy, because I'm not crazy. Leave me alone, douchecake." And then the therapist would mark you down as in the denial stage and then you'd be angry because as far as you know, you really aren't crazy and that therapist is up to his nose in bullshit so then you'd jump up and start yelling so then the therapist would mark you down as in the anger phase and then he'd smile and be like "Good job, paitent 41552. You're progressing. The next stage is acceptance! Hooray!" And then you'd try to attack you're therapist but then the security guards would come and put you in a holding cell and you'd be all alone and you wouldn't have a computer anymore so you can't  blog so you have to talk to yourself and then you realize that Holy crapmonkeys. I am crazy! And then you would realize that the therapist was right the entire time and he would let you out of your cell and you'd go to the therapist and be like "I'm crazy. Cure me! CURE ME YOU FOOL!" And  the therapist would be like "Yay! The acceptance stage at last!"
So...I guess I'm trying to say that blogging is bad for your mental health, which is kind of weird because that isn't the point I was originally trying to make with that rant.


You know what I just realized? I have no clue what turkey bacon is. Just for your information, I'd love to be enlightened on the subject.

--Tramp