Sometimes the most significant epiphanies and life lessons are realized in the most exposed and stripped situations.

Lake? Naked? SCORE. My clothes flew off, hehe. Bonks hooked me up with a sweet Ninja Turtles lifejacket- the little strap that threads through the legs wedged itself into my small crack. I reasoned that naked people probably drown faster because they are slippery and just shoot to the bottom- and that it was awesome having Ninja Turtle vagina floss. This brought me to hysterics and I ran to find Mom's boyfriend's son to see if he had a life jacket strap crammed in his Hoo-Hoo too. Boyfriend was nakedly adorning Son with his life jacket when I found them. (Yes, terrifying to think Bonk's boyfriend was naked too. Lucky for me, this portion of the incident has been erased from my memory. Someone is looking out for me out there...) A crouching BigHairyButtMom'sBoyfriend hid Son from my view as I giggled and waited for the reveal. It was like Christmas. Next Christmas all I want is skinny dipping!

SmallBoy, check. Life Jacket, check. Naked, check. ...wait..?! Whoaaa doggy. WHAT IN THE WORLD IS THAT HANGING FROM YOUR VAGINA SmallBoy?

I screamed. OK, I pointed too. The completely mortified SmallBoy ran and hid behind one of the beds and then refused to dip de skinny. After the shock passed and I came to, I felt the weight of an overwhelming task. As I stared into the spot that once held a small hanging penile thing, I vowed I must preach my discovery to the world... boys do not have vee-vees, they have crunchy cheetos

The hanging apparatus danced throughout my consciousness. People, specifically my kindergarten classmates, needed to be enlightened- and that is precisely why I described the "crunchy cheeto," (as I had dubbed it), at show-and-tell. Whilst friends held their beloved items, I too held something- the thriving memory of the miniature penis. My heart raced as I vaguely heard Aaron speak about his favorite baseball sock and Brittany about her ballet slippers. Frig your fancy footwear, friends, I thought. With a small clearing of the throat and a straightening of my stirrup stretch pants, I gave my fellow females a taste of reality. My teacher shit her pants. Man, I loved it.

Immediately after the reveal I was voted queen of the class. I think we even had a legitimate election. Little friends whispered inquiries, asked for drawings and dimensional descriptions. I provided. I thrived off the power. I was scheduling appointments in the tee-pee hut in the corner of our room, boys were even coming to hear what I had to say. I had regularly shared classified information with my classmates (like how my dad was 'handicapped' because his ear has a little part that didn't fully separate in a crease along the side, or that I had 'hemorrhoids'.. when I actually meant migraines,) but this was different, this time I had piqued an interest that was undying and loyal and absolutely addicting.

Years passed and Mom and Boyfriend had split. Son left as well, taking my memory of his face and name- yet leaving the peepee. Somehow the cheeto story permeated most conversations and became somewhat of an inside joke among many friends and... acquaintances... and people on the bus. I tend to be socially awkward, therefore fitting in 'crunchy cheeto wiener' into even the classiest of conversations was apparently effortless. Point is, I had made that penis a local celebrity and I was damn proud of it.

Through the magic of a little thing I like to call the internet CHEETO FOUND ME. We reunited and are now fantastic friendsies. (He does not know I am writing this, so the 'fantastic friendsies' part might change soon.) I even saw the cheeto again, it was still right where I remember. But that lame fairy tale crud has nothing to do with the moral of this tale. As I reminisce and attempt to pinpoint the reason for the significance of this story in my life, I realize the cheeto defines all my current priorities. I like food, boys, being naked and embarrassing others. I can abruptly end a romantic dinner with the mention of 'queefing.' I love declaring (to the men who vehemently deny it) that girls indeed do poop.. and we all know I can get naked in 2.2. (The naked thing also stems from the fact that I haven't quite grown any boobies yet, I truly have nothing to hide. Foo.) Because I am rarely embarrassed about anything that happens to me, (this morning I accomplished a ninja roll over a stroller while attempting to run after a child- and yesterday I burnt a significant bald spot on the left side of my head in a tragic hair straightening accident), I have a terrible, terrible tendency to publicly announce other's misfortunes. I promise it is not intentional, I am truly just a jackass. So, I apologize Cheeto friend for telling this story to my friends. And all of the internet. I might make a billboard too.

Come to think of it, I think we can all blame Cheeto for every idiosyncrasy and flaws that currently ruins my social and dating life. I found some overpowering satisfaction in the power and fame that weenie brought me that one fall day and I will forever roam this earth searching to recreate that feeling from so many years prior. I refuse to come to terms with the fact that wiener-and-vagina talk will not accomplish this when I am in my twenties, y'all is wrong. With that being said, this little ditty would have had significantly altered repercussions had I seen Cheeto's daddy's weinski instead. And I thank my lucky stars that wasn't the case. Cheers to the cheeto.