The Borrower

If I were to be honest, which, quite honestly, I'm usually not, I would tell you that I like to borrow things. Which, by the way, is entirely my un-fault. As in, not my fault. As in, I have no faults. Except for the borrowing, that is. Which still isn't my fault, because whether I decide to borrow something or not, I get accused of borrowing it to begin with.

(It just hit me that "borrow" is one of those words that starts to look really fucking weird the more you write it. I keep thinking whatever awesome person is reading this post right now is thinking that I'm talking about burrowing things. Which is completely different from borrowing. I don't dig holes and throw my belongings in the holes. Pardon my opinion, but I would call that weird and disturbing and one of those things that Freddy Krueger might have done as a child. If Freddy Krueger ever had a childhood. Man he'd be an ugly kid. Little Melted-Candle-Cock! I bet they called him that. "They" being the cute, little dream children with cotton candy for hair and bubble gum balls for toes, skipping around and humming and holding hands and chewing each other's toes because they're just that happy. Which is exactly why Freddy grew up to wear Christmas-striped sweaters and murder people. Because he just doesn't give a fuck.)

Now, I fully understand my tendency to borrow things (some of which include: my 3-year-old brother's fruit snacks, my father's toothpaste, and the toys from inside the cereal box that apparently my 6-year-old sister was really looking forward to finding, which all crashed and burned when she found the box empty, as I sat in my room trying to figure out how to fill the rubber Shrek up with water so I could squirt it at people. What. WHAT. Who wouldn't want a rubber Shrek thingy? Come on. COME ON. You know you'd want it. You know every other 19-year-old loves rubber thingies. Mine just happened to be Shrek-shaped. I would call that a much more responsible collection). However, some things I would never borrow. And some people. Do not realize this.

"Hey, Natasha?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Did you take my scissors?"

"Your scissors?"

"Yeah, my scissors."

"Your scissors?"

"Yeah, my little scissors."

"Your little scissors?"

"Yeah, my grooming scissors."

"Your grooming scissors?"

"Yeah, you know, for trimming chest hair."

"Your chest hair scissors?"

"Yeah, did you take them?"

"No, Dad, I did not take your chest hair scissors."

"But you know what I'm talking about, right?"

"No, Dad, I've never used scissors specifically for chest hair. I do not have chest hair. I do not need to trim my chest. It is hair-free."

"Well shoot. Okay, thanks."

On top of my family seeming to think I have monkey-tits, my sister seems to think I rob her on a regular basis.

"Natasha, where's my 40 dollars."

"What? I don't know!"

"Yes you do."

"What!"

"I know you do, Natasha."

"This is ridiculous."

"You're what's ridiculous. Give me my fucking 40 dollars."

"I didn't take your 40 dollars! I don't even know where you keep your money!"

"How'd you know I keep my money somewhere then."

"This is absurd. Obviously I didn't take 40 dollars from you. I'm broke."

"Broke 'cause you stole my 40 dollars."

"No. I wouldn't take anything from you. You know that."

"Is that my shirt on your floor?"

"Uhhh...I can explain..."

So there you have it. I get accused of stealing, when really, it's borrowing. And it's things like a squirt of toothpaste and Buzz Lightyear-shaped gummies. NOT scissors to trim my hairy pecks. If I did have man boobs, then yes, it is probable that I would, in fact, borrow the grooming scissors. But I don't. So I didn't. Whoever did, though, lives in my household and is obviously harboring a deadly secret, because the only other male in my family is three years old. His chest is less hairy than mine. Not that mine's hairy. His is just very clean and soft. Not that mine isn't clean and soft. Not that I even need to be discussing this.

Of course, I'm guilty of it, too. The accusing thing. But my accusations are LEGIT, thank you very much. Like the time back in '98. I went to bed and woke up. Only to find that my hair was a good two inches shorter.

"WHO CUT MY HAIR?"

"What?"

"ONE OF YOU CUT MY HAIR I KNOW YOU DID IT."

"Natasha, what are you talking about?"

"SOMEONE CUT MY HAIR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT."

"Natasha, you are making no sense whatsoever. Calm down and explain."

"THIS IS NOT A TIME TO BE CALM! I WENT TO BED WITH LONG HAIR AND WOKE UP WITH SHORT HAIR! WHO DID IT! TELL ME! TELL ME! TELL---"

"Natasha. Your hair is exactly the same length as it was yesterday."

"LIES!"

"Natasha."

"ALL LIES!"

"You really think someone cut your hair while you were sleeping."

"NO! I'M SAYING SOMEONE SNUCK. INTO. MY ROOM. IN THE MIDDLE. OF THE NIGHT. WHILE I WAS DEAD. ASLEEP. AND CHOPPED. IT OFF!"

"Why would we do that, Natasha?"

"YOU SAID JUST YESTERDAY THAT I NEED A HAIRCUT!"

"When I say you need a haircut, I mean that I will schedule an appointment for you to get it cut, Natasha."

"BUT YOU KNOW I DON'T WANT A HAIRCUT! SO YOU WENT AND TOOK MATTERS INTO YOUR OWN HANDS!"

That's when they all just started laughing at me. No one takes 8-year-olds seriously. All I know is someone cut my hair that night. And it was probably with the grooming scissors.