Because the Word "Poop" Will Always be Funny

I would just like to start out saying one thing - I was against this from the very start. Yup. This growing up conspiracy? No one can hold it against me – OH no. I said it was a bad idea. And now look at me. Just look what’s become of me. Maybe I was confused for someone else. I don’t know whose genius idea aging was, but I hope they age more rapidly than normal and meet an early death. There, I said it. And I’m sticking my tongue out too.

When did I say I wanted to pay bills, or get a big girl job, or have big girl relationships. And what drunk asshole gave me a credit card? Hello? Really? I couldn’t handle the responsibilities of the 3rd grade, and now I’m being held accountable for my credit score?

And anyone who wants to chime in, “But Christie! You’re but a mere 27! So much life left to live!”. Well, they can just tell that to the credit bureau, my cellulite, my parents, and the employers that won’t hire me, the directors who won’t cast me, and every single one of my body parts that’s decided it’s new favorite direction is, well, south. And I don’t even have kids! Imagine that! Me resenting the little kumquat for the nerve it had slip sliding out of me dragging the nether regions to the netherworlds before it even exists!

If it were up to me, I’d be 12 forever. With a driver’s license. And stiletto heels. And maybe margaritas. But 12 non the less. Always on the verge of getting my period, but never having to even know what a “feminine hygiene” product looks like.

So poop on you aging. Poop on you and all your minions.