Friday night I had dinner in Old Torrance with NY. It had been a little more than a month since I’ve seen her, which she reminded me very clearly multiple times. There was an implication that I’m an anti-social hermit, but I know that it has become a fact. She points it out to me all of the time.
We’re gabbing. She’s talking about work and shopping. I decide to tell a story about my tortured past. When I was in first grade living in Louisiana, we had two chihuahuas for about six months. I loved them. Sure they were troublemakers, but they weren’t too bad.
For some reason my mom decided to get rid of them, so she told me she gave them to a loving family who had a big yard for the dogs to play. Fine. I was upset, but I was okay with it.
I come to find out from my aunt that my mom just set them loose in some field. Just let them go.
So I’m building up the story to NY saying, “This is a tale of trauma from my childhood.” Or something along those lines. NY blurted, “What? Did you get molested?”
To which I responded, “No. It wasn’t THAT romantic.”