I’m not going to say I’m a mean person, but I do know that I am not as nice as my mom. She has a deep, abiding belief in nice. If she was asked to do a “This I Believe” for NPR, the only thing she would come up with is “Just Be Nice”. Her belief in nice is so strong and all-encompassing that I once found myself saying, “Sometimes, being ‘nice’ means being nice to myself, and that means I can’t be friends with Lydia right now.”
She always eats the burnt hot dog. She always tries to lose at Crazy Eights.
I, on the other hand, told her and my dad that they could not celebrate my birthday with me last night because I was pretty sure I had made myself The Best Birthday Cake Ever, and I didn’t want to share with more people. I promise I was not being mean because she caused me to go crazy last year. But I worked late nights to make this cake, and according to several sources, my birthday is “a hard day to remember”. So pretty much I only have me and my cake.
And I want to say this: you know how all the wise eaters say that after three bites of something, you aren’t even tasting it anymore? Fiction. Fact: all sixty-four bites tasted just as good as the first.