Sometimes, my anecdotes have fringes of self imposed danger. Not little danger though, BIG danger I didn't see at the time.
These are the stories I bring up and Mr. Hall asks me to stop telling.
When I was 19 I lived in a studio apartment with a guy. I lived in the walk in closet, slept on an army cot (from the army surplus store). He was an artist. We didn't date OH MY GOODNESS THANK GOD WE DIDN'T DATE.
Anywho, he liked to use pigs' heads as part of his "art". He would buy them at the butcher's. I CANNOT EMPHASIS THE QUOTES ENOUGH. If you and I were talking, in person, I'd be rolling my eyes and using air quotes. """"""""his art"""""""""" Thus, it was not unusual to open my fridge and see a pig's head. He also like to sew army patches into the skin.
So I am remembering this story. And telling it to Mr. Hall, who was no where near me at the time. Then I start to launch into a tirade that he ate my chocolate chip mint ice cream because I turned vegan for a week. I was pissed. Still am.
And Mr. Hall starts making weird noises so I stop.
When I was 16 my Dad bought me a small, second hand motorcycle. To drive a motorcycle one needs a general awareness of how to work a reverse stick shift, a sense of safety and WHAT THE HELL??? I WAS A FLIGHTY UNSAFE 16 YEAR OLD GIRL!! Needless to say I crashed the cycle in the first week. No harm though, I just locked the breaks and slid. Ripping open my knees and cracking my helmet into three sections.
This story pushes him over the edge.
He squirms and makes noises and looks like he is in pain. And I remind him it was ok. I mean, I'm telling the story right?
And he says, "No, you have to stop. You tell these stories and it's just not right. You need someone looking after you because you are so free and full of adventure. And you tell these stories and it scares the hell out of me. It's like you're fading right before my eyes. Like the people in the back to the future photo."
AND WITH THAT. . . .
I stop telling that story.