If you haven’t been living under a proverbial rock, or something that blocks internet connection, at least, you’ve been swept up in the online sensation (amongst all six readers of this blog) that is reveling in the embarrassing hilarity of the eccentric situations I find myself in while drinking copious amounts of alcohol. I indulge the reader’s demands because, like the G-List celebrity I am, it drives readership to this amalgamation of stories and interpretations we call Gator. I also do it because I’ve had fun and have no problems sharing this fun. Though I’ll still criticize The Jersey Shore and those who watch it, perhaps accentuating my own hypocrisy.
However, there is more to me, if only a few minute details, than my infallible ability to weave a desperately sordid tale of consumption and lust. For instance, I have an uncanny ability to start crossword puzzles every morning and never finish them. I enjoy wearing white suits while riding horses on a beach at sunset, I was the king of Multiplication in 4th grade and I have a three-year-old daughter. I’m going to devote the rest of this story to compare my premature crossword puzzling to my 4th grade multiplication kingdom. I ruled with an iron fist, in case you were wondering.
I’m kidding about the post. But not about my oligarchy, it was brutal.
My daughter, I think, has inherited from her grandfather, my father, a natural ability to spin a tale and relate it as if she were performing. It amazes me on a regular basis. Normally we draw our stories from our experiences, but in an affirmation of her own prodigious destiny, she creates tales from dreams that she remembers vividly, from things she’s seen on the television and books that I’ve read to her and she weaves all these together, placing herself at the very center. I wish to record these as I’ve been recording events that I can’t remember. Look for stories from the mind of Brooke in between those that I’ll never let her read (my own.)