A good friend once said, “Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most...”
Yes, that friend was Mark Twain... and I couldn't have said it better myself.
I'm not quite sure when exactly I misplaced my mind. I tend to go with the notion that I've scattered bits and pieces little by little, a bit of shedding if you will. I'd say it all started out with one crazy family and one hell of a mother. And so, as it goes, I was born a Smith, a big-headed family with no tolerance for shit. Honesty was my mother's policy, and quite frankly, her key to success. She believed in exposing me to the real elements of the world by bringing me to musicals that focused on sex, homosexuals, AIDS, poverty and deception. Through that, the only thing that truly fazed my 8-year-old was the butt Idina Menzel stuck out to the audience. I learned through my mother that there was no shame is taking a piss on top of a building if you really had to go. Our relationship has been built on a foundation of trust, truth, and big hair. She let me know from the get go:
2) Men are a bunch of twats.
3) It is easy to hate people but love mankind.
I wasn't born fat... I was a chubby baby but I am pleased about that much. Skinny babies tend to be funny looking. There's a better chance of being the babe adored by all when cheeks are plump. I, naturally, was labeled the "Gerber Baby" by all the nurses.
Then I began to grow. Despite my well-rounded-brown-paperbag lunches, my body evolved into that of a butterball turkey. I attribute some of my lost mind to this. I was told to call 1-800-JENNY in third grade and was taunted for my size by my neighbor Chris, the boy prized for his mushroom-cut bowl head. On the fourth-grade line for the chin-up bar, which forced me to dangle for 10 seconds to claim "participation points," I heard a thudding repeated over and over again. When I looked to the bleachers I saw A.J. and Brian banging crutches into the ground beckoning "HERE-COMES-KOURT-NEY" over and over again. I received fake love letters from friends, posing as boys who showed interest in me through my middle-school years. Despite my tits skipping the A-cup altogether in high school, I was labeled "the friend" by all. My first kiss was one full of slobber, an overly-agressive tongue, and a hand restless to grope. I dieted in countless ways and attempted all sorts of exercise. It was not until the winter break of my freshman year of college that I kicked myself in the ass and got real: weight watchers style. Rather than packing on the freshman fifteen, I shed the freshman forty. My curves are in constant fluctuation and I've embraced them as being voluptuous and sassy.
What else? Well I guess here would be where I go on about my interactions with the male species... bring you back to the days when I'd dream about having a boyfriend; the days when Torie and I would slow dance to "Leaving on a Jet Plane" in her den while holding our imaginary dates, George and Steve; the days when older black men started preying on me; the days when I shed a few pounds and learned what it meant to get down; to the days of men who would be really interested in me, suddenly disappear for two months, then reappear for a bit; to the days when men would fizzle out in fear of the dreaded "C" word... COMMITMENT, though I had not even hinted at such a thing; to the days when men wouldn't even grab a cup of coffee with me in fear it would give me "the wrong impression"; to the moment I realized I have bigger balls than most of these men and am told by past regulars from the bar...
"Kourtney, I really swear you are a man trapped in a woman's body, I love it."
This is where I would tell you these tales but I regret to inform you that I am not Chelsea Handler status. I am a barmaid, eight months out of college. If I tell you my "supposed" "wild" "sex" stories and poke fun at my so-called "relationships," some Spanish student that I am teaching English to in a village years from now will google my ass, find this blog, read down to this post and spread the stories amongst the other kids. Then one little prick will tell his mother and she will exclaim and shout words like PUTA! to the other class mothers and they will bring the post to the principal who will fire me and dispose of my reputation as a teacher. I will then be kidnapped and sold into a prostitution ring where I will die because my father is not as talented as Liam Neeson in the movie "Taken"...
I wasn't born fat... I was a chubby baby but I am pleased about that much. Skinny babies tend to be funny looking. There's a better chance of being the babe adored by all when cheeks are plump. I, naturally, was labeled the "Gerber Baby" by all the nurses.
Then I began to grow. Despite my well-rounded-brown-paperbag lunches, my body evolved into that of a butterball turkey. I attribute some of my lost mind to this. I was told to call 1-800-JENNY in third grade and was taunted for my size by my neighbor Chris, the boy prized for his mushroom-cut bowl head. On the fourth-grade line for the chin-up bar, which forced me to dangle for 10 seconds to claim "participation points," I heard a thudding repeated over and over again. When I looked to the bleachers I saw A.J. and Brian banging crutches into the ground beckoning "HERE-COMES-KOURT-NEY" over and over again. I received fake love letters from friends, posing as boys who showed interest in me through my middle-school years. Despite my tits skipping the A-cup altogether in high school, I was labeled "the friend" by all. My first kiss was one full of slobber, an overly-agressive tongue, and a hand restless to grope. I dieted in countless ways and attempted all sorts of exercise. It was not until the winter break of my freshman year of college that I kicked myself in the ass and got real: weight watchers style. Rather than packing on the freshman fifteen, I shed the freshman forty. My curves are in constant fluctuation and I've embraced them as being voluptuous and sassy.
What else? Well I guess here would be where I go on about my interactions with the male species... bring you back to the days when I'd dream about having a boyfriend; the days when Torie and I would slow dance to "Leaving on a Jet Plane" in her den while holding our imaginary dates, George and Steve; the days when older black men started preying on me; the days when I shed a few pounds and learned what it meant to get down; to the days of men who would be really interested in me, suddenly disappear for two months, then reappear for a bit; to the days when men would fizzle out in fear of the dreaded "C" word... COMMITMENT, though I had not even hinted at such a thing; to the days when men wouldn't even grab a cup of coffee with me in fear it would give me "the wrong impression"; to the moment I realized I have bigger balls than most of these men and am told by past regulars from the bar...
"Kourtney, I really swear you are a man trapped in a woman's body, I love it."
This is where I would tell you these tales but I regret to inform you that I am not Chelsea Handler status. I am a barmaid, eight months out of college. If I tell you my "supposed" "wild" "sex" stories and poke fun at my so-called "relationships," some Spanish student that I am teaching English to in a village years from now will google my ass, find this blog, read down to this post and spread the stories amongst the other kids. Then one little prick will tell his mother and she will exclaim and shout words like PUTA! to the other class mothers and they will bring the post to the principal who will fire me and dispose of my reputation as a teacher. I will then be kidnapped and sold into a prostitution ring where I will die because my father is not as talented as Liam Neeson in the movie "Taken"...
The only reason I find myself wishing I were famous is so I could write the nitty gritty on the awkward shower dancing, the slap, the four finger fate, the persistence of tiny Latin Americans, the "Hey Dad..." from the hot tub, Sydney Australia...
Alas, some stories are left to the imagination. They will be saved for my first published piece when I can tell the world to suck my steel balls while I smoke my Cuban cigar and sip my Louis XIII Cognac straight from the bottle.
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