If I Don’t Have It, No One Will!

If I Don’t Have It, No One Will!


I could really use a new backpack, one like Dora’s trusty friend who always seemed to come in clutch on an adventure.  Dora appeared to always be packed for a day at daycare, which is exactly where I needed a tote full of survival supplies.  

I tend to require many things on a day away from home, and not just any things – MY things.  A typical checklist follows:

  • Notebook for script writing/doodles
  • Colored pens (preferably gel – absolutely NO black or blue cuz I’m not a basic bitch)
  • Current book being read
  • Makeup you can’t wear in front of Mom (usually involving glitter)
  • Bubblicious (watermelon)
  • An electronic of the times
  • Chewy candies of some sort
  • If I was lucky a pastry from Big Apple Bagel


Normally I would carry my walkman and favorite cd/tape at the time, but not to most daycares.  You see my parents (mostly my Mother) had raised me on the hits of years past and present. Most of my beloved cds were given to me by her dear friend who owned a gay bar, and relayed the mix tapes to elementary school me (more on that later).  

My music was uncensored and definitely unfit for children’s ears, so naturally I loved it.  No I could not relate to that TLC album, but I learned not to chase waterfalls, scrubs, and that women love to creep.  I was aware that other kids weren’t allowed such music privileges, so I hoarded the wealth like a hipster does a soon to be breakout indie artist.

On this particular winter day, my Lisa Frank backpack zipper had broken.  That especially annoying time when the zipper just runs over both sides, but doesn’t enclose anything.  My books and momentos were falling out, including those idiotic tops of the gel pens, which never seemed to stay on.  

It was dark out still considering it was winter in Michigan, and I was in a crank ass mood as I always was in the morning in the winter (or any morning really).  Being a mild insomniac I’ve never slept well, and being a pussy I always despised winter.

As my Mom saw me fumbling with my belongings unable to fix the zipper, she snatched my backpack outta my hand and gave me a book bag to put it all in.  It was cream, which I despise on the account of it always looking filthy, and reminding me of crackers. I begrudgingly obliged as there were no other options, and we were off.

My Mother always worked several jobs when I was growing up.  We lived alone in a two bedroom apartment her and I, but I didn’t see her much back then.  She tucked me in every night and sometimes we had dinner, but most of my time was spent in school or daycare.

In an effort to brighten my morning on occasion she would take me to Big Apple Bagel for breakfast.  I always got a blueberry bagel with strawberry cream cheese, or a lemon poppyseed muffin. Those muffins were my holy GRAIL.  

On this wretched morning a surprise trip to B.A.B was in order, and lemon poppyseed I did receive!  Things were looking up after that backpack debacle.

I got to daycare ready to make this day my bitch.  I had already planned my activities down to the hour on the ride there.  Side note: If your kid starts planning like this in elementary school, lord help you.  Prepare for many therapy appointments, and I hope your insurance covers anxiety meds. Also, are you severely disorganized?  It appears someone is trying to pick up the slack for you.

As a child I always found other kids my age quite peculiar, and not in that cool Mrs. Peregrine way.  They seemed to have very fragile moldable minds, and I liked that because it made them much easier to trick.  

Although I quite enjoyed manipulating the young minds of tomorrow, other kids kind of annoyed me.  I was constantly seeking new knowledge, and most of them seemed to have none for me (except wtf was going on in cable TV, cuz my Mom was too cheap for that shit).  

This all is a roundabout way of saying I didn’t like the kids at my daycare (shocking).  The younger ones I found particularly agitating.

I strolled into daycare (it was a ladies house) saying my polite salutations.  Once the bullshit pleasantries were over, I hid myself away in a room upstairs to unpack my saltine colored book bag.  

As I was perfectly laying out it’s contents, my daycare lady’s daughter comes in.  Let’s call her Suzie, since apparently she was so irrelevant to my life I forgot her godforsaken name.  I was annoyed at this interruptance, yet I continued to proceed in the unveiling of my treasures.

This process can be exhausting, so naturally I needed a snack.  My lemon poppyseed muffin glowed like a ray of sunshine on this gloomy winter day.  As I raised this delight to my lips hoping to get high off of opium seeds, I suddenly realized I wasn’t even hungry.  

Suzie was standing at the doorway gawking at me like a salivating animal, waiting for me to throw her a bone.  In this case she was feenin for that opium seed, the kind only Big Apple Bagel could provide.

Once the epiphany hit that I had something she wanted, I became very protective of “my precious.”  I attempted to slyly wrap the muffin in that piece of plastic they give you.

Can we talk about that plastic actually?  This will be a quickie I swear. It’s so outlandish to even throw something so tiny into my bag.  The noise it makes alone reminds me of a scary movie phone call where the line is all crinkly. Am I supposed to use this scrap to not dirty the sensitive pores on my fingers?  Is it possible to contract an opium high upon contact?

If you serve me a pastry that already possesses a wrapper, please for the love of lemon do not use that chard of torture!

I’m glad we chatted that out, now back to Suzie.  

Her beady eyes gazed as I loudly rewrapped my muffin.  I had only taken one bite out of it, and was frankly disappointed in myself.  I went back to laying out my items when she asked the question I had been dreading more than her presence itself.  “Are you going to eat that?”

At this point I was extremely perturbed by the sight of her, so I mumbled “I don’t know” and looked away.  To which she replied “well if your not gonna eat it, can I have it?”

The trigger had been pulled and I leapt up, snatched the bag, slowly walked over to the trash can, and with a tone only a child in a horror flick could possess exclaimed “If I don’t have it, no one will!”  

I proceeded to throw the bag in the bin as Suzie’s mouth dropped.  Tears welled in her large bush baby like eyes, and she scampered away to tattle on me.  

Unfortunately we weren’t in New York, so snitches get stitches didn’t apply.  At that moment I would’ve loved for Suzie to become the second bride of Chucky.

I thought quickly of a game plan, how would I swing this?  Demonic possession? Carpal tunnel kicked in over the trash can?  I’m actually the creator of the idea behind Punk’d, and will sue Ashton for all That 70’s Show money for stealing it from me?  I didn’t want Suzie to become an opium addict, and was really saving them thousands in rehab fees?  

Before I knew it I heard footsteps, goddamn my creative storytelling skills!

My daycare lady (let’s call her Linda, cuz that was her name) came marching into the room, as I pretended to be reading.  That sly rat Suzie was hiding behind her legs, that fucking coward.

“Oh hello Linda didn’t see you there, was just doing some light reading,” I smiled.  The jig was up. She asked me about the muffin, and I had zero explanation for my actions.  

Later when my Mom showed up she passed along the knowledge that I was unable to share with the other children, and possessive of my things.  Fuckin Linda, cutting me to the core, making me out to be a mongrel.

I never forgave Suzie, and I made it a point to make her feel as uncool as possible in every interaction we had with one another.  She never tattled on me again, knowing it would be bad news bears for her daycare reputation.

All the while I thought, this never would’ve happened if my Lisa Frank backpack wouldn’t have broken.

Any fool could assess this situation, and realize that it wasn’t really about the muffin.  I wasn’t attached to the zesty snack, or addicted to the poppy’s from Asia. It was what the pastry signified in my life.  A special time that my Mother and I shared, which was rare.

I cherished those mornings, although few.  It was the relationship with her that Suzie unknowingly was attempting to take from me.  I was protecting the memory, and I will never apologize for that.

Fast forward 20 years, and I’m a supposed adult.  I’m mature beyond my years, educated, well liked, successful, you know the usual.  Now you’re thinking that Linda was wrong about you, right?

Well ladies and gentleman she was not.  20 years later I still harbor this emotion.  I still believe that if once mine, no one else should have it.

This idealism comes out the most with in dating, or other platonic relationships.  Most of the time I wouldn’t even call it dating (if your picking up who I’m laying down).  

Say I’m seeing a guy for a minute, then decide I despise him (I always do), and things kind of trail off.  As soon as I see he is with someone else I will become infuriated. Also this better not be someone I know, or they are toast.  

I think the only time I let this rule slide was when my best friend Joy made out with my ex on senior year spring break in Panama City Beach.  In high school it’s all just one huge tongue fest. It’s quite possible that I made out with every one of my friends, whether male or female (gasp).

At the time we were all screaming “We want MONO!”  Most everyone was still a virgin, but if a finger banging would have ensued I would be telling a different story, and may have a different best friend.  

It’s quite possible I get even more attached to some of my friends (as alluded to above).  

Since I don’t have any siblings, they are the closest I have to family.  As I grew older, I veered farther and farther away from my parents. I depended a lot on my good friends to help me get through my day, and encourage me that I was a person worth spending time and energy on.  For this reason, I have always taken it very personally when one of my adopted siblings isn’t putting in the effort I am.

I’m that girl who is friends with all different types of people.  I love it because it aids in the boredom I possess when repeating the same interactions, or engaging in similar activities.  

I may as well become a Madame of a gay brothel, because the gays flock to me.  I have my beauty queens, that I take shopping and gag over makeup looks with. I have my OG Michigan friends who I grew up with, and who know me at my weirdest.  I have my California Michigan friends, who I take trips down nostalgia lane with. I have my artists friends, who I do deep dives into the minds of. Then there are my college friends, who I play games with and drink far too much to this day with.  We have the intellectuals, who I rip apart common ideology’s with.

The list goes on and on.  

I’ve had two big “breakups” with people who I considered my best friends at the time.  Both of them started to veer away when they involved themselves in abusive relationships.  Sometimes I got the feeling that they believed me to be jealous of what they had, because I was single.

The truth was I grew up in a household of abuse, and had been attempting to save my Mom and myself from it for years.  I was now putting all my effort into saving them.

Like addiction, victims of abuse need to want to put themselves in better situations.  I found out the hard way that it’s impossible to help those who aren’t willing.

I resented these boyfriends for taking away these friends that were once mine.  They were different people when they were mine, and the connections I formed with them were unmatched.  I wholeheartedly love the people I choose to surround myself with. If I feel threatened that they are being whisked away, whether mentally or physically I turn into that same child out of a horror movie.  

They stole my poppyseed muffin, and I want it back.  

I will choose whether I want to drop it in the trash or eat it, either way you can’t have it.  I’ve taken out the garbage on many of my relationships, but most were by my own accord.

Because if I don’t have you no one will, and that’s just the way OCS is.

Do you love psychology, and want to hear what I believe to be the meaning behind this story?  Go to K. But What Does It All Mean for the tea!

Who can relate?