(Search was conducted without my permission. Search was conducted without me ever knowing search was being conducted. Makes me wonder what my parents have found but have not confronted me about, such as my 1996 Diary in which I drew naked men with different types of facial hair, ex. Naked Man With Mustache; Naked Man With Beard; Naked Man With Afro And Giant Sideburns. He was my favorite.)
"Natasha, get downstairs right now."
I innocently run down the stairs, only to find my entire family seated at the dinner table. But it was not time for dinner...this is when I began to worry.
"Natasha, I want to talk to you---"
It hits the table.
"---about your marijuana."
After oh-so-casually tossing what had been a VERY WELL HIDDEN baggie on the table, me and my entire family sat there staring at it for quite some time. When I say my entire family was there, I mean my entire family was there. As in all of them. As in my 3-year-old sister. As in my 3-year-old sister was looking at me get busted for weed. That's just fucked up.
Shortly after watching my father sniff the little green ball that had been sitting in my room for a month, since I had no intentions on smoking it but felt oddly guilty about flushing down a 20 dollar pebble-sized nugget, my terms of punishment were agreed upon:
"No TV. No cell phone. No going out. No hanging out with friends. No driving. No radio."
NO RADIO GOD DAMMITTTTT...
"You can blog."
"You can blog."
And so I thought, why the hell not? (Rhyme intended.) A few people at first were mistaken, asking me who was this Adam Sel? And why am I damned to be him? I quite frankly told them I had never known an Adam Sel in my life, but perhaps if I did he would feel quite honored that I have named my blog after him and at the same time be a bit creeped out that I feel as if I am damned to be him. Well, I do not feel damned to be Adam Sel; I feel as if I have been damned to be a damsel, which, according to Webster's, is "a young girl." (It also said "a young girl of gentle birth," whatever the hell that means. I'm pretty sure there is nothing gentle about forcing an 8 to 10 pound sack of lard out of a hole big enough to only fit a finger.) (Or fingers, depending on the girl.) (Or fist, depending on the skank.)
Brief side note: I've always wondered, as the baby is coming out of the vaginal canal, is it's mouth open? Because that's ten different kinds of fucked up.
And so the name was chosen: Damned To Be A Damsel, because that's just what I am. I could easily have named it, "Cuss-Filled Rants," or "What's Pissing Off Natasha Now?", or maybe even "FuckFuckFuck," but none of these had the word "damsel" in them and I'm being serious when I say I was infatuated with that word at the time. Who would have thought that two years later I still would have been publicly bitching about people who annoy me, and the funny thing is, I don't plan on stopping. 2010 is the year, man. I will do everything in my POWER to put myself in awkward situations and make people hate me and keep an eye out for weird mother fuckers who could potentially kill me in my sleep, and then what am I gonna do? I'M GONNA WRITE ABOUT IT. 2010, get ready for some action.
(And the excessive use of the word "fuck.")