Middle-aged man, khaki pants, khaki jacket, khaki socks, navy Crocs. He pulled a tissue from his pocket, causing a used one to fall to the ground. He kicked this toward the counter. The pretty cashier took the man's order and accepted the money from one grubby paw. Meanwhile, his other snotty hand stashed a second dirty tissue behind the "Donate to a Really Good Cause!" jar. Two fresh-faced women—a mother and daughter—stood behind him in silence. Mouths open, sentences unfinished, lives forever altered.

Mark my words, Monsieur Khakipants. When I am queen, that kind of behavior will not be tolerated.

1992: My mom sat downstairs, listening to Rush Limbaugh, doing jigsaw puzzles. I sat upstairs, reading Laura Ingalls Wilder books for fun after a snack of chocolate pudding.

2003: My mom sat downstairs, listening to Rush Limbaugh, doing jigsaw puzzles. I sat upstairs, reading Kate Chopin's The Awakening for school and snacking on chocolate pudding.

2009: My mom sits downstairs, listening to Rush Limbaugh, doing jigsaw puzzles. I sit upstairs, reading Kate Chopin's short stories for school and snacking on chocolate pudding, wondering how so little has changed since first grade.

Ten bucks to the first person who comes over and smacks the snot out of my head and/or gives me drugs.