oh sweet memories...

So, just some FYI, from here on out, new boi will be referred to as "le mien" not too hard on the fingers, short enough to chop to Mien if need be, and so cutthroat and to the point in depicting my grabbing wonder as to how I get him all to myself. MMK movin along here.

Le Mien and I were chit chatting at lunch, as we often do the latter days of the week when I work all day, and he works all night, and we don't get to converse as much as we would like, and the topic of memories came up. Well, I brought it up. Mainly because the amount of information I know about Le Mien could fit into a large salad bowl (if we were engraving facts on dominoes, that is). OH, don't get me wrong, I've been entertained by stories of past girlfriends and parents, sisters and Penn State "twins" but very little actual ooey-gooey-lemon-square-sunshine that really makes a person who they are in present time when you meet them. But! I know you're thinking... "well that's the part that you hear about over time, in the course of a few years, little by little through everyday anecdotes" well you can just put your anecdotes where the sun don't shine, because it's like I got JUST the answer to a very long quadratic equation. Well, yeah, that might do me some good if I'm trying to hit an old refrigerator, (can I hit it or not!? #twhs) but I'm a SCIENCE major. I need to know the HOW and WHAT, the gears behind the machine, the cause to the effect!

yeah, so, memories. He told me a few, and they were pretty funny, one had a sled, one had a messy bedroom and a nagging mother and a girl... and that really made a dent in the pre-me stories about him :) I'd rather not divulge the full top-secrecy of the memories, not only because I respect his pseudo-privacy, but also because to anyone else, they might not mean a darn thing... pretty much opposite of what they mean to me

BUT,  I actually had brought up the subject for two reasons, not just the knowing about him more, but also to share one of my own. Unfortunately for him, I forgot then the one that I had intended to tell all along. That story involves a booger. Yes, a booger. HA  the memory/story is this. I was in 4th grade. How I know this is by mentally placing the room and the tennies I was wearing. The room was in a counselors office in the second elementary school that I attended. I transferred there for reasons I don't remember, but there were only grades 1-4 there. I remembered that indirectly because I know that the middle school I attended next ran grades 5-7. And the tennies, well, they were obviously a thing of the early ninetys no sooner, no later. So I was taking this test, I'm pretty sure it was some kind of intelligence test to see if I qualified for a smart person program they had there called Quest. Dumb fuckers didn't let me in. Wonder why? Anywho, I was in the middle of this pencil and paper test and I got bored. Ever happened to you? happened to me.(Ron White) I happened to be looking down at my tennies, wondering if my ankles looked good (yup, that was one of the thoughts that crossed my mind during a TEST. I know now why I had such terrible trouble on the MCATS, but would make a wonderful trauma surgeon) when I noticed something on side of my right shoe. I thought to myself, how could something fashion it's little way on the outside, side of my right heel? my tennies weren't dirty, I hadn't sunk into some filth that was marring the pristine whiteness between the item and where my tennie touched the ground. That, at least, would have given some clue as to how that particular item had traversed it's way from someone else's NOSE onto the out sole of my SHOE. Then, as all 4th graders would do, I reached down to investigate. Yes, I touched it. Yes, I then brought it closer to my face. No, I did not put it in my mouth, as I am so fond of doing with things. ( yes, I did type all that so I could then type, you nasty reader I am not, in fact, making an allusion to dicks ) I, as a matter of principle it seems, put objects into my mouth without a wisp of a thought as to what I might contract. ew, I know, lets move on. So as I squished the increasingly icky object between my fingers it dawned on me what I was toying with. And I was grossed out. Not a lot does this. I'm a rather gross girl, if you hadn't noticed two lines up, I do gross things. I think that's why this memory sticks out in my mind.

It has just NOW literally, as I'm writing, come to my attention that ALL of my pre-middle school memories are GROSS. Seriously. The thought crossed my mind just now to tell you THE MOST GROSS story of my life, (I will NOT ever be divulging that little gem here) and it happens to occur before middle school as well. There is also the time where I vomited in front of my entire extended maternal family AT THE DINNER TABLE, and IT TOO was before middle school. ee gad my mind is a virtual icky trap. Why couldn't I remember nice butterfly barbie bumblebee hums in the middle of summer stuff?

So, in summation, my knowledge of Le Mien's life, if engraved on dominoes, has increased to fill a family-sized dinner salad bowl, and I have come to the conclusion  waaaay too late that my memory only sees what's stuck on the HEPA filter of my mind.

sic KITTY OUT.