There’s a special code written inside of you, and no, I'm not talking about your DNA or your NDA. I’m talking about your lore, and we all have one that is specifically linked to our existence, like our Covid microchips from them damn vaccines. We’ll never forget, Dr. Fauci (admiration). Our lores are built, bit by bit, one esoteric joke at a time, because like our ancestors, we too are hunters and gatherers. We just get to hunt and gather experiences rather than basic needs, which is way more entertaining, for obvious reasons. Best I can do in the basic needs department is DoorDash (hunting) and No Contact Delivery (gathering).
Our lore isn’t just made up of happy little jokes, because this isn’t a fucking children’s book. If dead mom jokes bother you, I think your time on this page has ended. Please exit, for your own emotional safety, because dead mom jokes are like a fucking children’s book in this dark, twisted mind. Therapy is expensive, and my Lexapro is already fighting for her MF life in here. Dark humor is hilarious, and more importantly, it is also free. Ding. Ding.
So as you are just moseying about in your little life, doing whatever you do in your life, there is a little Troll doll living inside of you, and no one can recall when she was manufactured, but against all odds, she persists. All of our inner Troll dolls are unique, just like us. My Troll has a pink star belly button and purple hair. She’s quite weathered, has moderate to severe surface damage, with what appears to be teeth marks on all four limbs. While the ink of her once bright smile is now faded, there is still evidence remaining that it did exist, at some point. She’s been inside me this whole fucking time, just gobbling up bits for the plot. Lucky for her, my life is an all you can eat buffet, and once a month, it’s open for twenty four fucking hours straight.
That’s because of perimenopause, and she’s a little shit. But enough about her, this is about my inner Troll. She deserves the spotlight, damnit. And even though I resonate more with Kanye every single day, I will not allow perimenopause to steal this moment from my inner Troll. Just because she thinks that menopause had one of the best videos of all time. We are breaking generational trauma, not repeating it. It was a Jewish doctor.
Are you confused? Ope. You’re not in on that lore. That’s the great thing about your lore. Unlike your brand, that is more widely accessible, your lore is much more versatile. The lore rolodex moves quickly, and bits are constantly being picked up, just to be dropped again. This almost sounds scientific, like whatever happens inside of CERN. But it’s not. In my situation, the bits being dropped are ping pong balls, and, well, just like chasing a ping pong ball in real life (I would rather die) keeping up with the lore can feel chaotic. Did you expect anything else?
One of my favorite parts about being a mom is how intertwined my personal lore is with my kids’ individual lores. We have familial inside jokes, and 1:1 inside jokes with each other, and when they all crossover? It’s literal magic. I can’t even articulate the feeling, and honestly? I don’t want to. It’s such a special feeling, reserved just for me and my kids, during those exclusive moments. I’m so glad that I get to be their mom, and I truly mean that. They’re really good kids, and they’re also all funny, so that’s a relief.
I don’t remember much of my childhood, because the data was lost somewhere in the cloud, and I don’t remember my Hotmail password from 2003, so there’s minimal chance for recovery. What a damn shame. I don’t remember much, but I do remember some, and I’ll never forget the day that Paul Boriack taught us why you never leave a pan handle exposed on the stove. Pan Safety 101. I realize every day that I am more and more like my father, and I love that about myself. But with great power (being hilarious) comes great responsibility (fall risk). Regardless, it’s good for the plot. Thanks, Dad.
Back to San Juan Avenue. My dad was standing next to the stove, a saucepan on the burner, with the handle pointing towards him. He said something along the lines of “well, here’s why you don’t do this!” and he slammed his hand down on that pan handle. Let me tell you what, in that moment, that pan became locked into our family lore before it even hit the ground. It all happened in slow motion. This was generational drama, and now it was permanent part of our family legacy. I’ll never forget it, Natalie, my sister, won’t either; in fact, we have both passed this bit of family lore onto our own children.
We’ve handed down this bit of generational drama like the passing of a baton in a relay race. Agility and athleticism is not something that can be found in the Boriack blood line, and that’s okay. We’ve got better talents, like matching mental and physical instability, and it’s very chic. No need to sign up for sports when your life IS a sport. I hope our kids don’t trip over their own two feet trying to pass the baton on to the next generation, but if they did? Well, that’s hilarious, totally expected, and the fall will be filed away with the rest of the family lore.
Our lores are a special combination of inside jokes, core memories, outside jokes, vocal stims, viral moments, intrusive thoughts, Big T little T sitting in a tree, and then here comes anxietyyyyyyyy. Remember the mental instability? That is a load bearing structure in my lore. We’re turning traumas into treasures here, and it’s important to note that there is no treasure map, nor is there a treasure chest to hold it all. It’s just swirling around in your brain, fist bumping all your little medicinal warriors up there, fighting the good fight, together. How romantic, really.
One of the best parts about being a parent is how you can contribute to your children’s lore; both positively and negatively. I truly believe it takes a certain amount of trauma to make a person funny, but I am managing this in a very responsible, loving way. Just like our parents did for us.
We are our children’s first teachers. Depending on your education level, and whether your parents installed the critical thinking disc that came in the mail back in the early 2000s, this can either be a good thing, or a really bad thing. If you are offended by Arabic Numerals being taught in public schools, please leave. We are shaming you as you go. 1, 2, 3, even the numerals are laughing at you on the way out. Probably in Arabic, just for the plot.
My children are quite lucky that I am their first teacher (brag). Not because I am filled with useful knowledge, or because I know how to do math. I don’t know how to do math, and that can be traced right back to Mr. Sanchez, the grown man that occupied a desk inside a fifth grade math classroom, but couldn’t actually teach anything, because he was asleep. Now that I am grown (allegedly), looking back, I suspect he was hungover. What a sad life for you, Paul Sanchez. I really am sorry that was your life; because Sister Peggy was a bitch, and I don’t even think she was a real nun. If she were my boss, I would drink to cope too. I never recovered from that gap year, but it hasn’t stopped me. Now we have calculators in our pockets, everything was a lie. Please show me your calculator history?
I understand the importance of building the lore, and I prioritize teaching my children the things that are not included in Colorado’s white washed curriculum. Don’t worry, I'll be teaching ya’ll a thing or two regarding that, but that is to come at a later date. We’re busy discussing the lore, remember?
Right now, I need to tell you how I accidentally cemented the Tylenol Murders into my children’s permanent lore. This happened completely by accident, and I don’t know when it began, but it’s now a squatter, just lurking quietly in the corner of our brains, and somehow it now has legal rights. Sometimes that lore comes out to play, usually when someone is fighting with tricky packaging or protective seals. It’s also important to me that I teach my children the truth, and the “why” behind the things that perplex them. Republicans: you should try it. Or your kids will just learn all that when they go to university. Either way, you are probably not going to like the outcome.
Before the Tylenol Murders, you could open products with ease and minimal effort, I assume. Then someone (likely a man, but I’m just guessing) decided they wanted to involve themselves in the community, but in a harmful, murdery way. Seven people died, and they never figured out who did it. It wasn’t me, I wasn’t born yet, and I am also not a killer (but don’t push me). The end result remains the same: because of that person’s selfish choices, now we have to fight through bulletproof packaging now, and sometimes it is just simply too fucking much. So naturally, every time one of my kids gets into an altercation with a protective seal, I ask them, “do you know—” They don’t even let me finish my question anymore. How very Kanye of them (compliment).
The lore building is something that happens naturally, like trauma responses and gluten intolerance. At least, that’s what I presume; my traumas remain mostly unresponsive, and gluten is the adhesive that holds my fragile life together. But I’ve always got that dawg in me (the Troll doll, remember?) and you do, too. What’s your inner Troll doll like? Tell me!