A night of Hamburger Helper, bad pants, and almost a scar

Many people believe that scars are weird or gross and all that lame stuff, but I think they're cool. Why, you ask? Well, they are like memories that you can see. Plus, they make for good stories. Mine used to - well, no, actually, it still does - make me feel a little bit like Harry Potter. It looks nothing like his, but it's on my forehead and it's noticeable. Plus, how many people get scars on their face, aside from acne and scabs? Okay, maybe quite a few people, but still!

This story begins in a house of death and torture.

That's actually way over-exaggerating than where it really began. The house was actually my daycare provider lady's house. She was, and still is, I'm sure, a holy roller. She's a bible thumper. Whatever you wanna call it, she's a church lady, like Dana Carvey, but much worse. She had dyed-red curly hair that was short. According to claims by my parental, she "loved me" because I was the only girl at the daycare. That part's true, I was around all boys. And let me tell you, little boys are way frickin' nicer than little girls. I don't care what those figurines, doilies, or hand-knit pillows say, little girls are mean. They are bossy, judgmental, possessive, and gossipy. I wasn't like that, though. I'm pretty sure I was nice. Yeah, I was definitely a nice one. Anyways, my daycare-church-lady, - let's call her Shmancy because I don't know if she'd want me writing about her like this - she scared me sometimes.

She really scared me a few times.

Once, we were eating dinner, all of us kids and her family, that is, and I had to go to the bathroom. This event is so burned into my memory I even remember what we were eating. I was, like, four. We were eating Hamburger Helper Macaroni food, with the cheese and macaroni and meat. I went to leave and I think she stopped me on the way, saying something about "manners," or some crap, about asking before you leave the table. She really freaked me out because one thing that terrifies me is being caught doing something wrong.

And I peed my pants.

Then, Shmancy got down to my eye level and said something like, "What do you think your mom and grandmother and aunt will think of you if they know you peed in your pants?! You're a BIG girl. Not a little baby." Of course, she probably didn't mean to scare the pee out of me, but she did. Because she is a crazy bible lady. And crazy bible ladies scare me. I feel like God is watching me through their eyes, but worse, like all of the things I've done wrong EVAR, they know about, and then God's wrath will come flying out of them through their eyes and voice (lightning bolts and scoldings, possibly fire-breath as well) and come crashing down upon me. Like Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction, when he's always talking about striking down upon those who try to poison his brothers and he will strike down with furious vengeance and rage and you will know he is the Lord and blah blah blah. Oh, and after Shmancy gave me a good slap on the wrist - not literally, of course. She's Christian. *rolls eyes dramatically* - I started crying. Another one of my weaknesses, I feel horrible when adults yell at me like that. And I was young, so I lost it right then and there.

It was all very dramatic, really. I went through stages of fear, worthlessness, embarrassment, shame, and then fear again all in one night. At the age of four. I'm pretty sure that was the last time I ever peed my pants.

Oh, crap. I just realized this has nothing to do with what I was going to talk about at all. It began with a scar and ended up with me peeing my pants. 

Maybe someday I'll write a post about the scar because it really is awesome and Harry Potter-like.