I ask a lot of questions.
I am curious about everything and everyone. There is no subject about which I don’t want to know more. If PM tells me someone he knows had a baby, I am not satisfied with mere weight and sex information. I need to know when labour started, how long it lasted, if the mother plans on breastfeeding, where I can send cloth diaper info, what names she called her partner during delivery and which Republican President the placenta most closely resembled.
I would make an excellent lawyer except that: a) I can’t afford law school; b) I think everyone is guilty; and c) I would spend more time in prison for contempt than someone serving a sentence for keeping body parts in his fridge.*
This isn’t a new phenomenon. I’ve always been this way. When I was in grade three, our class studied hermit crabs as part of a science unit. I could not know enough about these creatures. Where did they sleep? How long did they live? What do they eat? Why were they called “hermits?” What was a “hermit,” anyway? Was the guy who lived in an empty dumpster behind Kentucky Fried Chicken and wore a crocheted beer can hat a hermit? Where-did-you-get-these-crabs-Can-I-take-one-home-for-the-weekend-How-was-our-changing-ecology-and-climate-affecting-their-life-cycles-and-reproductivity-andohalso-is-Canadian-Wildlife-Protective-Services-aware-they-were-in-our-possession?
Our teacher said he need to leave the classroom “to check.” Even at eight years old I was pretty sure that was the teacher code for “I’m going to do whiskey shots in the staff room.”
No one seemed surprised when we got a supply teacher for the afternoon, because Mr. C had a “head-ache,”and I was sent to the kindergarten class to help out as “a special treat.” I was fine with this. Those 4 year olds would tell you EVERYTHING.
Even now as an adult I can’t control it. I start off making innocent inquiries about where a sweater or purse was bought and end up discussing self-esteem issues and why your parents divorce probably was your fault. I have verbal diarrhea of the chronic, explosive kind, and I make people cry.
And possibly drink.
I am available for parties.
*I realize that my choice of the pronoun “his” perpetuates a certain patriarchal stereotype about serial murderers who keep human bits in their fridge being male. My apologizes to any female body part hoarders. You count too!