Size Does Matter, And Trust No One Who Says Anything Different

Nice misleading title, writing101, so of course I had to up the ante. Sorry to say, but today’s post won’t be about penises, it will be about me at age 12, and the only thing twelve-year-old me knew about penises was a) they were required for baby production, b) if you kick them the man or boy attached will utter the most amusing screams, but that I had known since I was two, and c) all evidence pointed to that bitch of a Maths teacher not getting any. So penises are right out for today.

Nope, today is all about sentence length. Wish they’d told us their criteria for short, medium, and long, though. Like this last sentence, was this more on the medium side or on the long side? And how about this one?

Also, because I’m still lagging behind, I’m combining this with the day 8 assignment and hereby declare the death of adverbs. The adverbs are dead, long live the metaphors!

Aaaaanyway. (Now how’s that for a short sentence?) When I was twelve we had just moved from a big flat with a draught that could blow away a bear situated in a house built around 1870 to a flat of equal size but with more rooms in a house built in the 1970s. Other than that it was the same, same boring country, same boring city, just a couple districts over. Hundred years can make quite the difference in architecture, let me tell you. The old house had four storeys; the new one had 23. We were in the middle at a comfortable level 15 and you could see for miles when stepping out on the balcony. You could also hear everything that went on on the motorway but that’s beside the point.

I don’t have many memories of the move, I just recall a general aura of stress like a giant cloud of smog enveloping everyone and everything. People moving around, running, yelling at each other, furniture everywhere it shouldn’t be, and my parents, who are never on the hippy zen side of things to begin with, this close to being at each other’s throat. At one point I climbed into my still empty wardrobe because people and noise and my brain are never a good combo. I think I fell asleep in there. When I came back out a couple hours later no one had even noticed I had been in there. Points for not being underfoot?

We moved in the middle of winter which had its good and bad points. On the one hand, it was freezing and it took a while for the flat to be heated up. On the other, we could use the balcony as fridge substitute until the new fridge was delivered. I remember getting milk for my cereal and finding it frozen stiff in the carton. Nothing like a good start in a new home.

So you may or may not have noticed that my parents lived with me at that point. I’m an only child. Therefore, the room number was a constant source of confusion to visitors even though there was a simple enough reason. I had my own room, and so did my parents. This is what happens in a household full on introverts (and snoring fathers and parents who are not always on speaking terms because of reasons, ahem, ahem, don’t think I didn’t notice, you ain’t raised no idiot).

The new home being located in one of the outer districts also meant I now had a one hour commute to school. For the next six years I had to get up between 5:30 and 6:00 in the morning. Don’t ask me how I managed, I have no idea. Couldn’t do it now, that’s for sure. I mean, I grown at the thought of having to drag my sorry ass out of bed at 8 a.m. Could I be getting old?

Nothing more interesting happened that year. We settled in after a while, mom didn’t seem happy, dad just wanted some peace, and I just wanted a decent internet connection (this was waaaayyy before we had wi-fi, LAN all the way, and not a flat rate either. You young whipper-snappers with your smart phones don’t know what we had to deal with. Let me shake my cane at you! ….yep, I’m getting old.) About two years later grandma moved in next door and that opened up another couple cans of worms, whoop-ass, and family drama. But that’s a story for another time. Here, have a dick pic:

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