Scars

This blog is about scars. Please note I mean PHYSICAL scars, not emotional ones. There are not enough pages on the internet to discuss emotional scars, so don’t worry. I’m not ready for that can of worms.

There’s a saying that physical scars are a testament to our lives, a road map of our past. Scars are reminders of where we’ve been and things we can reflect on when thinking about the past. Scars make us stronger, they show what we’ve lived through, what we’ve healed from, what our bodies are capable of.

This got me thinking about all of MY scars, about my past, my history, where I’ve been, what I’ve lived through and decided to make a map of my life. Please note these are only the scars I can see right now…

So basically I’ve lived a life of stupid choices and klutzy ways.

It’s pretty fucking impressive I’m not dead yet. So MY scars are testaments to the fact that I am indestructible and that I clearly don’t think most things through.

The Worst Job I Ever Had

So before we go into the actual job, I do need to explain a few things.

1)  Butt crack sweat is real – sorry, Neil. It’s a real thing, and both guys get it and girls get it. In my opinion, girls get it way worse. Why? Well let me explain via pictures:

 

  

You see, men get the rolling back sweat collecting in their hairy ass cracks, usually the hair absorbs the sweat and helps reduce the accumulation at the base of their butts. Women generally do not have the ass hair there to absorb the sweat, so the sweat rolls on down between the cheeks, and collects in the bottom of their panties. It’s like a large pool of ass sweat that sludges along into the panties, and if you’re working out, it’s super disgusting.

2) Funky crotch sweat is also real. I will spare you the pictures.

Again, sorry Neil. Your next girlfriend will have both these problems on a regular basis. Especially during the summer. They are the facts of life.

Let’s move on. When I was 18, my first job was at Value Village. Well, that’s partially a lie. I worked at Victoria Epicure for 2 days during my spring break when I was 17, but it didn’t work out. My first full time job that lasted more than 48 hours was at Value Village.

That’s right. I worked at the amazing world where you can purchase used items at (usually) deeply discounted prices. And I got to wear a flashy red vest. This job included the awesome tasks of:

1)  Carefully shaking out clothes in the change rooms before picking them up because there could be used needles in them (because junkies wanted to shoot up while trying on clothes… I don’t know why, seems like more effort than it was worth):

2) Cleaning the bathrooms where random people came to come in and shit everywhere and left:

And finally…

3) Searching the girls clothes for pants that smelled terrible

Seriously. #3 was a thing. I don’t know if their policies have changed, but back in 2001, when clothes were donated to Value Village, they were put on the floor pretty much in the condition they were donated in. They were not washed in any way, shape or form. And some dicksacks would donate their clothes unwashed. And some of those people would wear the clothes without underwear, and THEN donate them.

Yup. They would donate clothes that have full on absorbed both butt crack sweat as well as funky crotch sweat and have remained unwashed for God knows HOW LONG before they made it on the floor. And some of these people had yeast infections when wearing the pants without underwear and not washing them before donating them.

Not everyone has experienced the joy of being around yeast infections. I haven’t had them personally (THANK FUCKING GOD) but I’ve been around some people that have had them, and it is not pleasant when they go commando. I can’t even describe the smell, but holy balls. Mixed with the regular butt sweat and the occasional funky crotch sweat, that was the combo for disaster. Please note I’m assuming that this was the cause of what was going on in those pants, because otherwise, there are some reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally funky crotches out there.

So whenever anyone complained that an article of clothing smelled terrible, the VV staff would have to go through the racks of clothes (almost always pants), trying to locate the offending item. You could usually tell you were getting close because they generally had a pretty strong odour.

The worst part was that all the fucking time sometimes there was more than ONE pair of funky jeans, I generally found 3-7 pairs. And they almost always had white, green, grey or yellow dried chunks of goo on the inside of the crotch.

Yes. The worst job I ever had was:

Searching for pants with dried out yeasty crotch jelly.

For minimum wage.

Jenny

Previously I mentioned how I could get away with murder. This is still true. I totally can. I can also tell when someone else has the same ability.

I’ve had the pleasure of knowing an adorable little girl for the last few years:

We will name her Jenny. I’ve seen Jenny grow from an adorable 3 year old, to a super adorable 6 year old and what I’ve learned is:

She is potentially a serial killer

I know I know. I do watch a lot of Investigation Discovery and if you don’t know what that is, check it out here. Please don’t try and get the channel unless you want to:

1.   Become addicted to true crime and murder

2.  Assume everyone in your life is involved in true crime and murder

3.  Eventually assume everyone around you is trying to kill you

4.  Develop a deep rooted concern that everyone around you is a serial killer AND out to kill you

I discovered this show (haha see what I did there? Investigation Discovery? Discovered? Don’t worry, it’ll come to you eventually… carry on) when I was in Mexico in 2013. It was one of the only channels in English, so I watched it when I was in the hotel room. If you didn’t know already, please note I’m pale as fuck:

So I did spend a few hours a day in the hotel room to prevent hideous death sunburn. I subsequently ordered the channel when I returned home so I could continue watching shows basically explaining how horrible humans are.

Due to this, I’ve learned to ID (see? I did it again! Oh I’m hillllllarious) criminals, especially serial killers. Which is why I know this adorable little muffin has the potential to be the best fucking serial killer ever. I have mentioned her in a previous blog but she’s said so many things I just think she deserves a blog dedicated to her.

The first time I babysat her (please note we lived 

in the same house but I was in the basement suite and she was 4), the conversation was like this:

Her: You can't go downstairs til my parents get home

Me: I won't go downstairs

Her: no. You CANNOT GO DOWNSTAIRS UNTIL MY PARENTS GET HOME

Me: I will not go downstairs

Her: * very quietly* if you go downstairs before they come home, I'm going to pull out all your hair and then you're going to die and you'll have to stay up here with me forever

She laughed, I awkward laughed… And then she had her little fists wrapped around my hair and went "your hair is so pretty. It's like Ariel's." then looked me straight in the eye and went "you should leave it with me." and then started laughing to herself… fists still gripping my locks.

If I die and am missing all of my hair, it’s going to be pretty obvious who did it. But no one would believe it:

Another classic Jenny moment:

Another time (more recently, she was 6) when I babysitting, we were both walking up the stairs and I was tickling her and:

Yup. She’s still got it. She’s moved on from taking all my hair though. Unless that’s a rouse…

With all that being said, having a potential serial killer in the house does have its advantages. I feel that she will be able to keep OTHER serial killers away.

Case and point. I lived alone in my suite, and was in the bath:

That’s right. I caught myself from actually inviting the potential serial killer into the bathroom. Then I frantically started texting my landlord/friend to confirm if she was in the suite. Then logic kicked in.

One serial killer wouldn’t want another serial killer stepping on their turf, right? So the conversation quickly changed to:

Me: Can you send Jenny down? I think there’s a serial killer outside my bathroom door and I have no weapons in here, so it’s probably best she comes down and just takes care of the problem

In my head it would go like this:

Sadly, her mom’s response was:

WE AREN’T EVEN IN THE HOUSE

So I was basically fucked. I spent about 45 minutes in the bathroom texting people to let them know I loved them in case I was killed by the polite serial killer outside the bathroom door who was most likely chilling on my couch waiting for me to come out. Eventually I found some weapons:

A paddle brush and some curl setting spray. Yeaaaaaaaaaah I’d spray and brush (or spank?) the motherfucker. Yes this pic was legitimately from that night, I was concerned it may be the last photo of me ever but I wanted it proven I went down fighting. I sucked it up, came busting out, and:

Empty living room. I checked all the rooms, the deadbolt was still bolted. So I lived another day. Another day closer to the day Jenny may take me out. Until then though, I’m safe. Sorry potential other serial killers. I’m spoken for. And no one will ever believe it if it happens…