Shirley Temper

I realize that I didn’t account for possible heirs when writing my living will. I will now address my death as it concerns my first child, Jianna. For those of you who don’t know the story of Jianna, I will briefly elaborate here.

When I was in middle school in Portland, my class went on a retreat for three days to a local campsite for “Sex Camp.” We learned about STDs and condoms and crap. Then, to discourage us from ever sitting on a boy’s lap or sharing gum or any other means of getting pregnant, the teachers drew names out of a hat and assigned us spouses.

I was madly in love with a half Irish, half Iranian boy named Mike, and crossed my fingers that I would get him. Rather, I ended up with Jonathan Peterson (I’ve changed his last name). Jonathan was a fat, bespectacled genius who ran in gym class with a scarf around his neck and a cardigan around his shoulders. Looking back, he was pretty awesome but I was a mean pretty girl and I was so mad about being paired with him I couldn’t see straight.

Any who…our child was a sack of flour that I called “it” and Jonathan named “Jianna.” He drew long, Daisy Duck eyelashes on it and a little red mouth. A day later, in a fit of parental rage, I threw Jianna into Jonathan’s chest and she exploded against her father.

Last year, I found out that Jonathan is now an Ivy League educated, contact lens wearing homosexual. I really believe that people are born gay or straight, but I can’t help but think that the fact that his first experience with a girl involved him tolerating her emasculating rantings and the murder of his daughter.

Jianna gets nothing.