31. poor eating/sleeping habits = weird-ass dreams.

i rarely remember dreams.

the few i do remember are all strange, vivid, or hilarious.

or all three.

i know that, apparently, i talk in my sleep.

i occasionally manage to laugh myself awake.

sleep with my legs sticking straight up or crossed.

etc.

here are some examples:

1. in high school, while reading The Importance of being Earnest for English, i dreamt that i sat on a pouf at a small coffee table.

the room was dark, except for the spotlight pointed at the pouf across from me, and on a plate of cucumber sandwiches.

i reached out and ate one.

two.

several.

and so on and so forth.

occasionally, a friend of mine - or at least a familiar face - came along and sat across from me, sharing the sandwiches.

nobody spoke.

the guests filed through, one by one.

and that was it.

i've never had a cucumber sandwich in my life.

i'm not even sure if my imagining of said sandwich was at all accurate.

2. i was walking around with some friends.

eventually, a friend pointed out my funny walk.

everyone else chimed in and teased me.

i kept trying to laugh along, secretly hurt.

i said, "Haha I don't walk like that..."

aloud.

in real life.

and woke up when i overheard myself say "that."

3. i ran into someone i know by acquaintance - someone very pretty, relatively popular, though generally absent.

certain events took place that i can't remember, but at one point we found ourselves in a big king-plus-sized bed.

fully clothed, don't worry.

and she turned over so i could big-spoon her.

i seized the opportunity.

though, for some reason, i didn't really know what i was doing.

she gave me instructions and i was eager to follow them.

and that was it.

for the rest of the dream, until i woke up, i dream-spooned.

and that's about the raunchiest my dreams have ever gotten.

4. it took place during WWII.

i was at a concentration camp, as a Nazi, but after witnessing a heinous crime i decided that i was batting for the wrong team.

i resolved to escape the camp and find allies to enlighten them and end the war.

for the majority of the dream, i ran across the countryside, evading dozens of Nazi trucks, planes, tanks, and infantrymen.

5. i was at an airport, trying to check my bags in.

for some reason, the agent kept telling me that the bags couldn't go through.

i got angrier and angrier.

before i realized, "Hey! This is a dream!"

and my bags magically went through.

and then i gloated.

and woke up.

6. i was dead, in heaven, and someone i had feelings for while alive came up and joined me, after getting hit by a car: an accident i tried to prevent and consequently faced "judgment."

as i was the first person she thought of after dying, i was sent to her as her Guide.

i took her around heaven, showing her the ins and outs.

at around lunchtime she said she was hungry, so i asked her what she was craving.

"I dunno," she replied, "Chinese?"

"Perfect! For that we can go to B-Town."

"B-Town?"

"Buddhism Town. It looks a lot like Chinatown."

"Isn't heaven just for Christians and Catholics and...whatever?"

"Well, I mean...heaven's infinite, right?"

"Right..."

"So why can't there just be room for everyone?"

7. i was doing a stand-up gig.

my joke, "Overly political lesbians look at my color and go, 'Ooooo.' Koreans and Latinos look at my gayness and go, 'Eeeesh.' Straight guys take it all in and go, 'YESSSS.'"

i laughed myself awake.

8. i was in a classroom.

everyone else was working on some craft project.

i was listening to a certain someone give something of a lecture at the whiteboard.

the entire board was covered in her handwritten lists and sets of rules.

she cracked tons of jokes - none of which is coming to mind - and when a professor tried to interrupt, i stood up next to her.

she and i teased each other for a little while.

eventually, she rebutted by punching me in the crotch.

i doubled-up in laughter and pain.

a bystander asked, "What happened?"

the culprit replied, "I punched her in her doormat, that's what."

Do people really call it that? i thought to myself, Also, that didn't hurt as much as usual. ...Hey! This is a dream!

i proceeded to laugh even harder.

to the point where i woke myself up.

actually laughing out loud.

---

that's all i've got for now.

i'll keep you posted in case anything really embarrassing comes spilling out of my subconscious.

30. Korean grandmas are a dying breed. Relish those visors and animal print shirts while you can.

i love Korean Grandmas.

especially my own, but generally i find that Korean Grandmas are the kick-ass sort who flip society the bird from behind their too-large shades with their animal print shirts and permanently sour-puss looks.

as if to say, "Epp you, modahn day nohms, I habuh my own agenda. And dis is my regime's uniporm."

the other day, though, it hit me: after the current generation of wise-cracking, battle-scarred grandmas...disappear...they'll be gone forever.

at least in the US.

think about it.

all that sass came from decades of walking through war-torn streets, learning not to give a damn, and perfecting the art of practical "fashion."

the socks in sandals for comfort, warmth, and full range of motion for those toes.

the animal print, for urban camouflage.

the visors, so the sun won't blind them as they get up to their shenanigans.

like scowling at passersby.

muttering Korean obscenities about them.

haggling.

speed-walking.

nowadays, the up and coming generations of Koreans in the US have become way too trendy.

at least, too trendy to even consider tossing away their - i-don't-even-know-what-their-chosen-articles-of-clothing-are-called-because-i'm-so-frumptastic - in exchange for the Korean grandma fad.

it makes me sad to think that my own grandkids (if they're to exist) will never know what it's like to go Ajimah-spotting.

being waved at in that little way only those grandmas can do, where the hand and forearm almost spasm in unison, and the lady responsible purses her lips in what's supposed to be a friendly smile.

no old ladies to reach out, uninhibited, and pat them on the head.

no little 'fros.

they'll all - mostly - speak English fluently.

i feel like i have a responsibility to future children.

like when i'm old, i have to take on the challenge of keeping the Korean grandma phenomenon going.

learn to speedwalk with my hands clasped behind my back.

purse my lips.

wag my finger at questionable strangers.

overfeed my grandchildren.

clap my hands whenever i laugh.

examine things a little too closely, disregarding the concept of "personal space."

i owe it to my grandkids.

no one should have to miss out on the Korean grandma.

this is a call to short, stubby arms.

the kind that are generally stiff, even and especially when they randomly reach out and yoink you into a hug.

Grandma - Halmony - even though you can't read English, this one's for you.

for all those little slaps you gave my mom whenever she slapped me.

for being the only adult blood relative i had to tell me from the get-go that i should, "Grow up. Go to collegey. Be comedian."

for being you.

i salute you.

love you.

teach me your ways.

29. just tell him your dad owns a gun. and you're Catholic.

getting away with not kissing your middle-high-school boyfriend for 2+ years is easy when you casually slip into conversation the fact that your dad is in the army and probably owns a gun.

and is, like you, very Catholic.

and probably owns a gun.

being straight was easy.

or acting like it was, at least.

in a way.

acting on my desperation to hide any signs of my gayness wasn't as difficult as it could've been.

"Hey, Vickie, you should toooootally ask Jon out!"

"...Why?"

"Because! He's cute and he toooootally likes you! Like, likes you likes you."

"Huh."

during the next class period, i found my target.

"Hey, Jon -"

"Hi!"

"Yeah. So-and-so said that you like me like me."

"Uhh..."

"Wanna be my boyfriend or something?"

"Yes!"

and that was that.

flirting.

the dating part wasn't all that complicated either.

i kind of liked opening doors for him and paying for his movie tickets.

nor did he seem to mind, though at first he gave me weird looks.

"What, is this weird?" i asked, sincerely.

"Uh. A little bit."

"Oh. Huh."

and we carried on.

in terms of the conditions of our "relationship," being that i was usually busy with swimming and school and violin stuff, keeping him and his angsty hands at bay wasn't much of a challenge.

if anything, as far as i was concerned, i had a new best friend.

occasionally he'd drop hints about things, though, like, "Haha So some of my guy friends said that if they were me, they'd've totally kissed you by now. Like a lot."

"Haha That's funny."

and then i'd remind him about my dad.

nowadays, i do feel guilty about the way i treated Jon.

he was a good guy - sweet, silly, and genuine.

unfortunately, he was a guy and i was a lesbian, so any chances of me completely giving the thing a real go were nonexistent.

i figured that if i was really going to turn straight with this whole arrangement, anything beyond my 1st base (that's handholding) would be a reward for my newfound straightness.

after 2+ years, handholding and occasional pecks on the cheek were as hot as we got.

it hurt a lot, knowing that i made no progress.

and that i must've also been inadvertently hurting someone who was the least deserving of indifference.

and now i'm not only wracked with the guilt of having wasted over 2 years of his prime, awkward, pre-pubescent "dating" years for my own selfish aims, but also with the regret of being way too self-aware and self-conscious to try anything beyond 1st base.

because now i'm fucked.

the least i could've done, i know now, was to figure out how to properly navigate through that whole talking and flirting and dating and relationship(ping?) mess, to avoid becoming the oblivious mess i am now.

so that when a perfectly attractive girl randomly texts, "Hey! I'm caught in traffic right now and would really love a distraction ;)," my first thought isn't, Why the hell is she telling me this? but, Ohmigod, Ohmigod, Ohmigod, she's TEXTING me! Winky face!

or, when i finally do decide to do the pursuing, i don't jump to the opposite end of the spectrum by going with my middle-school-hetero gut-feeling and come off so strong that i scare her away.

women are so much more complicated than guys.

nowadays i find myself so terribly lost and confused and clueless that any prospects that decide to fall into my lap end up slipping through and vanishing into some vacuum for mixed-up words and gestures.

i'm close to giving up.

whenever i fantasize about sparking something up with someone, i like to think that i'm the pursuer.

suave and sophisticated.

witty and irresistible.

and then i wake up and stare for uncomfortably long periods of time or vomit incoherent thoughts all over a promising conversation.

or not say or do anything at all.

just stick with my old standby: quietly pining.

miserably.

i'm beginning to think that i'm hopeless.

always the friend but nothing else because i lack the ovaries and savvy to make things happen.

Big Spoon dreams with Little Spoon attitude.

the best i can do now, i think, is to sit around, clueless and somewhat uninhibited in my hopelessness, and wait for someone to be clear and gameless.

"Hey. I think we should date."

that'd be good enough for me.

except, knowing me, i'd probably still wonder if she's kidding.

hot damn.

i'm pathetic.

[and this post is kind of all over the place. my apologies.]

28. revenge never ends well. sometimes.

very few people have met Mean Vickie.

it tends to take a lot to get on my bad side or to get a rise out of me - usually i opt for passive aggression, like anonymously tripping bullies down the hall or eating the last cream-puff.

rarely do i resort to violence or yelling or petty revenge, because when i do i either feel guilty or get out-revenged.

this doesn't mean that i never get mad, though.

it just means that i usually bottle things up, and the smallest thing can send that cap flying high and let me get sprayed in the face with my own repressed frustrations.

basically, i can look like a real asshole.

for instance:

1. when i was growing up, my mother became obsessed with the idea of me "reaching my fullest potential" and attending Juilliard or becoming some kind of world-renown violin genius.

as such, she took to forcing me to participate in Mommy-Daughter Practice sessions: 3 or 4 hour-long periods of me practicing my violin under her supervision while suffering through endless shouts, slaps, and rants about why i was a terrible violinist.

they were painful.

neverending.

and afterward i always found myself in ratty shape, eyes blotchy and clothes sopping with sweat and tears.

i was never in the mood for anything apart from locking myself away and gorging donut after donut.

so one day, after a Session, as i was making my way up to my room, and when Annie decided to make some snippy remark about my violin playing, i finally snapped.

hard.

to this day, i can't even remember Annie's exact words.

all i can remember is feeling something in the pit of my stomach explode and spread to every inch of my body, reaching down to my bow hand and forcing it to fling the long, sturdy wood and taut horse-hair down on my sister's arm.

after the quick, loud THWAP of contact, there was a brief moment of stunned silence.

we stared at each other.

i couldn't believe what i had done.

i'd never so much as poked anyone before, let alone tried to actually cause harm.

she started to sob.

i continued to stare.

panic.

our mother rushed in, a worried look on her face.

she saw that my bow was still slightly raised and shaking.

that Annie was in tears, clutching her arm.

she glared at me and turned to hold my sister.

"Was da mattah wiss you, huh?!" she screamed.

i didn't know.

"Why would you do somesing like that?! How could you do somesing like dat?!"

i didn't know the answers to those, either.

all i knew was that Annie was still sobbing, and that i was the one responsible for it.

"Go to yoh room!"

i couldn't move.

the weight of the guilt rooted me to the spot.

"Go to yoh room!"

finally, i started to come to my senses.

i started to turn to leave.

and then i saw it.

between two sobs, Annie took a breather.

looked up at me.

tearless.

she smiled.

winked.

sobbed again.

our mother held her tighter.

just two thoughts went through my mind: the first, BITCH; the second, Well played.

i went upstairs without a word.

2. i've never been in tune with today's flirting methods.

that is, at least, i've never been caught up with my contemporaries.

i'm usually several years behind.

i didn't pick up on the whole "tease your crush" thing til recently, which was why in the 7th grade, when a boy took to tripping me up in the hallway or calling me names or randomly punching or shoving me, i didn't feel flattered.

i felt pissed.

day in and day out i dealt with his taunts.

after several weeks of this, i found my outlet.

in my media and technology class, our teacher assigned us a publishing project where we'd use a story-telling software to write and illustrate a short story.

overestimating the time we had to complete it, i figured i'd use this as an opportunity to let out the demons before actually writing something to turn in.

thus began the telling of Poor, Poor Jimmie - my first-ever short.

i got a little over-involved.

poor, poor Jimmie, i decided, was in such a state because - well - nobody liked him.

he lived alone in a shabby apartment, not even a cat or dog or hamster to keep him company.

when he woke up - late, because he was a lazy-good-for-nothing - he found that he missed the bus to school.

in fact, while waiting on the curb, in the rain, without an umbrella, several passing cars managed to splash copious amounts of gutter-water on him, drenching him from head to toe.

he immediately caught pneumonia.

he needed to get to the hospital, but he didn't have a car.

he started walking.

occasionally, passersby would shake their heads and turn away as, even through the rain, they could tell that he was smelly.

no one helped him.

i can't remember all of the details, but i do remember that at one point, as he tried to cross the street to get to the hospital, he was hit by a bus.

an ambulance picked him up and took him to the hospital.

where nobody visited him.

The End.

by the time i finished the story, and illustrated it, i found out that i had run out of time to write an actual passable one instead.

i was forced to hand in Poor, Poor Jimmie.

for a week or so i was on pins and needles, fully expecting to be sent to a counselor for my dark and dirty work.

but the day the teacher handed the project back, on the very last page i found, "A+ Great writing and illustrations! ...But who is this poor, poor Jimmie?"

i never explained.

3. i have a theory: when you finally come out of the closet, you experience your truest phase of adolescence, no matter how old you actually are.

this theory is intended to justify my brief descent into pettiness.

but.

sometimes women just drive me nuts.

last summer, my ex (then, my girlfriend), a friend, and myself made our way cross-country, in a jeep, to the east coast.

we were in close quarters for a long time.

too close.

we grated each other's nerves.

but the breaking point didn't come until later on.

i drive like a grandma.

the fastest i'm willing to go is typically just 5 above the speed limit.

which wasn't that acceptable to my then-girlfriend.

"Everyone's passing us," she'd say, over and over again, "You can go a little faster, you know."

i chose to ignore this.

seeing as how i could barely drive properly at 5 above, there was no way in hell i was going to up the ante.

plus, given my horrible string of bad luck, there was always the chance i'd be the one to get pulled over.

but she kept urging me to speed up.

"Ugghhh," she'd groan, "We keep getting passsssed."

after what felt like hours of this - after trying to curb my own want for retaliation by inserting teasing or explanatory remarks - i finally caved.

"Fine!" i cried, pressing the accelerator, pushing 15 above.

two seconds later, i saw the red and blue flashing lights in my rearview mirror.

fuck.

i pulled over.

laughed.

Kim laughed nervously in the backseat.

the passenger's seat remained silent.

after the cop gave me the ticket and pulled away, i told the others that i didn't want to hear another word about my slow driving.

"Are you blaming this on ME?" asked my ex.

"YES. Well, not entirely. But at least kind of. A little bit."

she didn't say another word for several hours, but scowled all the way to the hotel.

and then some.

as soon as we unpacked the car and settled into the room, she whipped out her diary and scribbled furiously into it.

undoubtedly, about me.

frustrated, i found my journal.

and silently but angrily wrote, "I HAD FRENCH FRIES FOR DINNER. THEY WERE GOOD. MISSING THEIR SWEET POTATO BRETHREN, THOUGH. OH, MY GOD. SWEET POTATOES."

and so on and so forth.

this, apparently, fanned the flames of her fury, because her scribbles became ever more rushed and heavy and shortly after she threw herself into bed.

i followed suit.

poor Kim was already pretending to be asleep.

[hours later, though, the guilt got the better of me and i apologized.

still.

it was kind of her fault.]

27. i have weird thoughts.

i've been going through my mini-journals, trying to dig up something of a comedy bit i could offer up to my loyal readers.

nothing terribly long or detailed caught my eye, though - at least, nothing intentionally funny and long and detailed - but i did come across various random ideas i thought i'd share to pass the time and avoid studying.

here we go:

1. My mom's nickname in high school was Barracuda.

Mine was Waddles.

Something skipped a generation.

2. I really don't like that whole "Butch/Femme" thing.

Mostly because I have no idea which one applies to me.

I'm like a Butch/Femme combo.

Homeless.

A Bumme.

3. For the joke about The First Time: Gestures.

Slowly start reaching hand out as if to grab something, at last second, just after finally touching whatever, suddenly pull away.

Scared.

"Oops! Haha! ::shudder:: Oops! ...Yours or mine? ...Hahaha...?"

[Proceed with awkward, ashamed gestures.]

4. I hate being in the friend zone. I mean, if there's one thing I like about myself, it's my taste in women.

But hot damn.

And you get so desperate you start doing desperate things.

Like playing chauffeur or buying them things.

Being their wingwoman.

That's probably the worst, actually.

Except, luckily for me, she has no idea that I'm actually a terrible wingwoman.

5. PMS Goggles.

6. ...Also, last night's dream featured an all-out spoon-fest with ____ ____.

Random, but lovely.

Until I woke up to find out that none of it happened.

Still, though.

Dream ____ ____ knows how to cuddle.

7. Speaking in terms of spoons.

I'm way too effing lazy to be butch or femme.

I'm okay with just being bumme.

Fetch.

A surprise big spoon.

8. Waiting for Godot spoof: Waiting for Jaffar.

Magic carpet.

9. Hm. I should try to find a way to unite Drunk Vickie and Sober Vickie.

Confident Vickie and Lame, Whiny Vickie.

Gross.

I'm lame in real life.

10. Whatever [in regards to being called a "perv"].

Last week I totally considered spooning as "getting some."

11. "Playing for teams."

The lesbian team playing in flannel jerseys.

12. BAH.

13. I didn't know I was weird 'til my mother told me.

14. I come from a long line of terrifying women.

And I take after my dad.

15. Impelled to write a short story entirely in my mother's voice.

Which might accidentally become an entire novel, given the superfluous verbal additives that're sure to arise.

16. My "game" is more like Parcheesi.

Seems like everyone else is playing Halo.

17. I like how Disney thinks it got the whole Asian peoples covered with Mulan.

They needed about 20 movies to show us the different kinds of white people who're out there, but Asians needed just one.

26. i'm the Toro Slut. and hugging leads to sex.

i know i must be bad in bed because the cuddling that ensues afterward is my favorite part.

i'd do anything for a good cuddle.

the sex part is really just the vehicle to get me there.

"Wanna go back to my place and...cuddle? Oh, you wanna have sex first. Well. Okay."

i mean, i don't have much experience to base this on.

i've been with 2 people, kind of.

still more than my 2 sisters combined.

which actually makes me the Toro Slut.

2 more and i've got my parents beat, too.

not that i'm creepy enough to keep up with these stats.

unfortunately, the second i turned 20 my mother transformed into an awkwardly explicit stranger who advised my sisters and me to, "Not wait until marriage. Oh my gahhhh. Biggest mistake."

this was a complete turn around from the person who, after catching Olivia hug her 7th grade boyfriend, sat down with my dad and warned us that, "Hugging leads to sex."

our dad cried.

Sex is evillll, i gathered, so i knew i had to avoid it at all costs.

i used to count hand-holding as its own base.

1st: hand-holding.
2nd: kissing.
3rd: touching.
Home: it.

and i felt this way until my second year of college.

i didn't get to my 2nd til i was 19.

but then i started spooning.

er, got over my fear of spooning.

because, for all intents and purposes, spooning is the laying down version of hugging.

[insert story of first spooning experience.]

so once i got the hang of it, i was hooked.

but then i found out that it wasn't that easy to come by.

being that, for the typical person, spooning comes as a consequence of other, less-innocent acts, but for me is the overall purpose for those less-innocent acts, i'm kind of an outsider.

i don't know if i've ever had that feeling of wanting to "sex" someone.

when i first saw Easy A, i thought to myself, "Oh, man. I bet she'd be a really great little spoon."

it's weird how strong this need to cuddle is.

i'm cuddle-horny.

corny.

"Boy, would I wanna cuddle HER bones. Just get right up in there and SNUGGLE."

my libido is stupid.

or it would be if i had one.

meanwhile, i have to get over myself and accept that, when i go out to clubs or parties, not everyone i meet is gonna be all up for hooking up in a purely - literally - Biblical sense, where legs are clapped shut and the only thing i'm looking for is a good cuddle.

25. i'm hotter than the platypus.

one of the meanest things anyone's ever told me was when my ex, during a talk about talking, said, "I don't think we need to talk. Just the physical stuff - being around each other - is enough."

i mean, knowing her, she meant it in a romantic kind of way, but for someone whose biggest fear is not being able to say the things that're on my mind without sounding stupid, for someone who wants to finally be able to open up and share things with someone who's more or less obligated to listen, that's a pretty crappy thing to hear.

it was weird when i found that out about myself.

i never really saw myself as the kind who would be the one in the relationship to want to talk.

the Little Spoon.

but throughout our relationship i found myself saying things like, "Don't you wanna talk about it?" and "We never talk! Let's share things!"

after a little while, hearing my echo, i realized, "Hot damn. I'm THAT lesbian. Crap."

i wasn't always like this, though.

when i was little, i was perfectly happy being the quiet kid.

i didn't know i was weird til my mother told me.

then again, she had my sisters first, so it wasn't a huge surprise to find that my shyness threw her off.

she was used to getting calls from elementary school teachers who explained, time and time again, that my sisters were way too chatty and knowledgeable for their own good (as they were both the kind to tell the others how babies were made and how babies were unmade. abortion. in the 2nd grade.).

when i came along, she was sure the calls would stop.

as a baby, i never so much as whimpered for food.

so one day, when i was in kindergarten, and a teacher actually did call home, my mother was taken aback.

she came into my room to talk to me.

"Beekie?" she said, sweetly.

"...Yes?" the unusual gentleness in her voice was a little unnerving.

"Ah you unhappy?"

"...No...I don't think so...why?"

"Yoh teacha call to tell me dat she's worried because uh you habn't said a word in 6 months."

Is that strange? i thought.

"Beekie," she started again, "You hap to staht talking, okay? Oddawise people gonna sink yoh weird. Nobody like shy people, okay? So work on dat."

i was horrified.

it didn't help that, as i was growing up, i had my sisters to compete with.

they were flippin' verbal beasts.

they've always had something witty or passionate or eloquent to say about anything you could think of.

they can make a flippin platypus sound poetic.

no offense to the platypus.

but i mean.

i'm hotter than the platypus.

on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the platypus and 10 being, like, Kate Winslet, i'm at least a bulldog.

like a 4.

but maybe i'm not giving bulldogs enough credit.

the way they walk.

always like they're headed someplace with a purpose.

doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot.

my walk's a little less doot-doot-oriented.

for as long as i can remember, really, i've waddled.

less a doot-doot and more a whop-whop.

i don't hate my walk anymore, though.

not as much as i did when i was a kid, anyway.

little kids are ass-holes.

i used to get teased to no end.

kids'd follow me around the playground, mimicking my walk.

call me Waddles.

i'd always play and laugh along, like it didn't bother me, but Little Vickie had feelings, too.

once, when i was about 10, my dad noticed that i looked a little down.

"Whatsamatter, Vickie?"

"Oh, nothing," i sighed.

"C'mon, you can tell me."

"Well...I waddle."

"...And?"

i sighed in despair again.

"Go on," he added, hastily.

"The other kids tease me, but I can't help it."

"Oh, well, Vickie, that's no big deal. You know, one of the greatest comedians of all time waddled."

being that at this point i'd already been telling anyone who'd listen that i was going to grow up and be just like Ellen Degeneres, this was a pleasant surprise.

"Really?!"

"Yeah!"

he went out and rented Charlie Chaplin's The Gold Rush and watched it with me.

the second that little tramp waddled his way into frame, i knew i was in love.

that i'd found my kindred.

i was obsessed.

the following Halloween i dressed up as the tramp.

all of the kids in the neighborhood had no clue who i was, but the old people treated me special.

slipped me extra candy.

gave me high-fives.

greeted me with a, "Hey, Charlie!"

things were going great and my waddle was the last thing on my mind.

until i got to the last house.

the little old lady who lived there greeted me with a big smile and, like the others, several extra Snickers.

i was feeling good.

i turned and made my way down her path back to my parents.

"Hey!" she cried, suddenly.

i turned back around, expecting more praise.

"You even WALK like him!"

i don't think she knew it was unintentional.

for a second, my heart sank with the memories of my playground bullies, but then i remembered my Chaplin.

and waddled on.