Old Habits Die Hard.

I'm going to admit, the closer I get to thirty, the more I catch myself mildly freaking the fuck out. I think it has something (everything) to do with the fact that every single person over thirty finds out that I'm twenty-nine-and-nine-months old, and looks at me like I'm on my way to my own funeral. They look sad and disgusted, and tell me that everything goes downhill from here... "Good luck", they say.
Like I'm going to need it.
Listen here, geezers. I've got a pattern of keeping it real since the day I was born. I am essentially the same person I was thirty years ago- I even have the same habits! I'm still the same ol' G, and if you need more proof, here's the evidence:
I've been addicted to gossip since the day I was born. We were probably talking shit about Elmo or Grover here.


For a special treat, my parents would give us candy. It wasn't so much a special treat for us, but rather for them. It meant that our mouths were shut for a few minutes, and the adults could enjoy the sweet release of a silent house... You're welcome, mom and dad.
To this day, I still can't say no to a box of Rainbow Nerds. I'm not made of stone over here.

I still make strange noises whenever I see strange animals on the sidewalk, even if I am entirely alone. I love animals! Sometimes it borders on creepy!


From day one, and for the rest of my life, I promise I will always have a penchant for dressing for the occasion... Even when I was two, and the occasion was "underpants day", I've got the perfect thing to wear. No problem.

I loved UV rays then, and I love UV rays now. I was probably wearing negative thirty-five SPF in this photo. I have since learned that the true secret to the perfect tan was something I was already using back then, without a clue to it's benefit: baby oil... No wonder I was such a babe.

Thanks to my genetics, along with a heavy Diet Coke habit from the age of three, I did not ever reach the five-foot mark on the height chart in our hallway. Thanks, aspartame. No, I'm not being sarcastic. I mean it... Thanks for the years of deliciousness that I enjoy on an almost-daily basis. Your lack of calories makes me feel falsely entitled to include more actual sugar into my diet, and if that means using a step-stool the rest of my life and growing a gigantic tumor, so be it.

Check me out here. This photo was taken at the wedding of Paul Hackman, deceased guitarist for Helix. I guess that makes me Canadian metal royalty or something... And you know what? I still know how to rock a party with ease.


See? I'm not worried about getting older. I'm mostly just worried about winter coming soon. And poisonous spiders. And people yelling at me. And running out of Fruit Stripe Gum... My supply is getting low, you guys.

~sarah p.

p.s. Bonus Parsons family photo!
My dad's power-mullet and argyle sweater, my mom's unintentional hipster glasses, our upset cat, my sister's fixation on our homosexual dog, and me, holding it all together (while wearing lace tights). This was the only photo I could find of us all together (no wonder my parents got d-i-v-o-r-c-e-d?), and I think it was part of a school project that I didn't want to do.
These people made me who I am, and I love these A-holes like crazy, no matter how old I get.