Sentimental Hogwash

(I promise I'll go easy on the scanning stuff from now on, as I'm sure the amusement level is running down with each subsequent post, like yes, yes, we get it, Amy, you were a kid once! Like everybody else! And you said/wrote/wore the darnedest things, etc., ad nauseam, blah blah scancakes.)

(Naked Old Man Monkey Baby says BITCH PLZ SHE'S GOT NOTHING ELSE TO TALK ABOUT.)

 
 

I'm about Ezra's age here, give or take a few months, going apeshit over...something. I do wish my mom had saved those pants, because they are outstandingly awful. I would make my children wear them ALL THE TIME.

There you have it: Definitive proof that the mailman is NOT Ezra's mother.

And here is definitive proof that I was an obnoxious little overachiever, even in preschool:

 

STRAIGHT O's, BITCHES. And two O-plusses, for "Sense of Humor" and "Attention Span." The teacher notes, though, after "Works and Plays With Will Others" that I "sometimes becomes emotional during free playtime. She is sometimes very sensitive about what others say or do."

(Translation: She's a tattle-tale who cries a lot.)

A couple years later my concerns about other people's behavior extended to the afterlife, as I became quite nosy about the state of everyone's eternal soul:

 

Because Valentine's Day is the perfect occasion to ask Did you give your heart to Jesus? Well, did you? 

(Note: I wrote this valentine for my MOM. Who like, drove me to church and read the Bible to me and stuff. BUT YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO SURE.)

Then again...

 

Another card for my mother. Poetry, crosses and wild...loins, all together. So one day if you come to this site and find nothing but long-winded quasi-religious manifestos about sex, salvation and Crayola-funded mind control you can at least say you saw it coming. 

 

Yes. Tooooootally saw it coming.