fair hand. I like to think I was a good leader, but, even with the dweeb-blinders that my Canberran friends seemed to have been born with, I couldnât hide my true identity forever. I was so far from being a cool kid (my obsession with acrostic poems was proof enough of that), and living outside of my natural habitat started to take its toll. Towards the end of my time there, I could definitely feel the façade slipping away. I was starting to get brief sideways glances whenever I did or said the wrong thing. It was like they were slowly putting a puzzle together, and when the final piece was in place it would reveal a picture of me, wearing a stackhat and riding a tricycle with toilet paper hanging out the back of my pants.
So I was relieved when, after a few months, our time at Karralika was over. Not because we were finally going home, but because I knew if we stayed much longer, my elaborate lie would be discovered. It was an exhausting way to live, but I left while I was still on top, and will hopefully always be remembered by those kids as the mysterious yet impossibly cool girl from Sydney, who swept through their lives like a trendy hurricane for exactly one term in Year 4. (I also learned an important lesson: if youâre a school kid whoâs being bullied and you live in a major city, head to Canberra. Theyâll treat you like a god.)
Tayla had taken her first steps at Karralika, I had been cool and Mum had completed her twelve steps for the twelfth time. Just another standard stay at rehab.
On our first night back at home, I was still on a high from having accidentally pulled off three months as a fraudulent Queen Bee (although more than a little concerned about going back to the minion end of the food chain). I was excited to be back in my room in our fancy private rental. I was happy to see Joe. Things were good.
Then I caught Mum standing at the fridge, filling up her glass from a chilled box of wine. I started to cry. Not because I hadnât expected it, but because I had hoped there would be at least one day where we could all pretend like this time it had worked. Mum told me it was fine, that I didnât have to worry, that going to rehab meant now she could drink just one glass and then stop. But hours later, the box in the fridge was empty, and I knew that I had always been right: rehab is a lot like camp. And it never stops your parents from drinking.
You will get caught masturbating while watching Rugrats .
My mum may have loved wine, and she may have disappeared from time to time when she felt like her kids were unfairly preventing her from drinking wine, but she also had some golden moments where she managed to pull off some spectacular parenting.
One of those moments, perhaps even the top moment, was the way she delicately handled my not-so-delicate habit of humping my mattress until I climaxed.
I was eight years old, and I was obsessed with my clitoris.
I donât remember the first time I figured out how to orgasm. I didnât even know what an orgasm was. All I know is that at some point, I figured out that if I rubbed my fanny hard enough, I could make something âspecialâ happen down there. So it became known as my special place. I do remember being about five, and getting out of bed in the middle of the night to put undies on so I would have better friction with my mattress, so Iknow I started young. Iâd had my own room at Smurf Village, and with that kind of privacy I managed to squeeze three or four special place sessions in each night. Iâm surprised I slept at all.
One night, after a particularly good special place explosion, I lay in my bed, staring thoughtfully out the window, knowing that I had discovered the exact job I wanted when I grew up. I wanted to get paid to have special place explosions all day long. I had no idea if such a job existed, or that my mum had firsthand experience of it, but I couldnât imagine a life where I
So I was relieved when, after a few months, our time at Karralika was over. Not because we were finally going home, but because I knew if we stayed much longer, my elaborate lie would be discovered. It was an exhausting way to live, but I left while I was still on top, and will hopefully always be remembered by those kids as the mysterious yet impossibly cool girl from Sydney, who swept through their lives like a trendy hurricane for exactly one term in Year 4. (I also learned an important lesson: if youâre a school kid whoâs being bullied and you live in a major city, head to Canberra. Theyâll treat you like a god.)
Tayla had taken her first steps at Karralika, I had been cool and Mum had completed her twelve steps for the twelfth time. Just another standard stay at rehab.
On our first night back at home, I was still on a high from having accidentally pulled off three months as a fraudulent Queen Bee (although more than a little concerned about going back to the minion end of the food chain). I was excited to be back in my room in our fancy private rental. I was happy to see Joe. Things were good.
Then I caught Mum standing at the fridge, filling up her glass from a chilled box of wine. I started to cry. Not because I hadnât expected it, but because I had hoped there would be at least one day where we could all pretend like this time it had worked. Mum told me it was fine, that I didnât have to worry, that going to rehab meant now she could drink just one glass and then stop. But hours later, the box in the fridge was empty, and I knew that I had always been right: rehab is a lot like camp. And it never stops your parents from drinking.
You will get caught masturbating while watching Rugrats .
My mum may have loved wine, and she may have disappeared from time to time when she felt like her kids were unfairly preventing her from drinking wine, but she also had some golden moments where she managed to pull off some spectacular parenting.
One of those moments, perhaps even the top moment, was the way she delicately handled my not-so-delicate habit of humping my mattress until I climaxed.
I was eight years old, and I was obsessed with my clitoris.
I donât remember the first time I figured out how to orgasm. I didnât even know what an orgasm was. All I know is that at some point, I figured out that if I rubbed my fanny hard enough, I could make something âspecialâ happen down there. So it became known as my special place. I do remember being about five, and getting out of bed in the middle of the night to put undies on so I would have better friction with my mattress, so Iknow I started young. Iâd had my own room at Smurf Village, and with that kind of privacy I managed to squeeze three or four special place sessions in each night. Iâm surprised I slept at all.
One night, after a particularly good special place explosion, I lay in my bed, staring thoughtfully out the window, knowing that I had discovered the exact job I wanted when I grew up. I wanted to get paid to have special place explosions all day long. I had no idea if such a job existed, or that my mum had firsthand experience of it, but I couldnât imagine a life where I
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