When I was 7, my grandfather (the one who paid me $50 the last time I saw him, which I’ve now decided was a bribe to keep me away from any future family functions) chose me as his favourite. He and my grandma would invite me over on Saturdays, make me potato pancakes and feed me coffee and spoonfuls of peanut butter behind my mom’s back.

They’d take me to the Stratford Farmer’s Market on Sundays and buy me Menonite-made Barbie clothes and porcelain figurines that my mother would be forced to put into yet another drawer because I’d already filled up 3 with the amount of crap they’d already bought me.

I learned at a very young age the concepts of favouritism and buying love. Although I’ve yet to see that pony I was promised…

Towards the bitter end of my high school days, I dated a complete moron who solidified what I’d already learned; material things mean love.

He bought me tons of useless (and incredibly ugly) tokens of his affection, including but not limited to skin tight, white track pants (that would have given anyone camel toe, don’t judge me), an Esquire watch (which I’ll give/sell to anyone who wants it) and some horrible-smelling perfume.

He also told me he’d break up with me if I ever gained weight or dyed my colour other than blonde… so maybe he bought me things 50% out of love and 50% out of being the absolute worst, most controlling boyfriend in the entire world.

Worst, obviously next to the drug dealer, the Jesus-freak, the stoner who broke up with me on Valentine’s Day, the one-upper, the professional BMX biker who had the maturity of a 15 year old girl, and the guy who told me I wasn’t allowed to eat mayo. MAYO! ME!

Ahh hell, they’re all tied for last place.

And I’m tied with every other girl on the planet for being Princess of the World. Obviously.

Although I’ve got a competitive edge; if you ask some of the guys I work with, they’ll tell you I’m a Superhero. With Superhero boots and a super-human knack for crying on command the second one of them starts making fun of my fake hair, my inappropriately-short-for-work shorts, and my relative new-ness to the world of digital advertising.

That’s all for now. I’m boring until I get back from VEGAS, bitches. And yes, I do mean bitches.

Sleep tight my little ponies,