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Many, many years ago, when my outward appearance was that of a wee fairy child with long, long brown and gold hair, I had an accident.  Now, most third graders (around the age of eight, for any non-American friends) are pretty dense, even ones at nicer schools such as the elementary institution I attended.  Again outwardly, I was fairly dense in that respect as well, and for fifteen years now have denied that said accident was anything but an accident.  Well... the "accident" was an accident.  The setup was not.

 

Even at that age, I never did quite properly identify as a little girl, and spent most of my days being quiet and out of the way of other students, with whom I would often get in horrible arguments, me being a pretentious little asshole with a superiority complex, and them being, well, children.  Still, one day on the bus ride home, I overheard some of the older girls discussing someone's father, and his amazing ability to be aware that he had to pee early in the morning, but "forget" about it and not "need" to pee again for a full twelve hours later.  (these were the terms used, and are probably rather inaccurate, but that's how it was recorded in my mind).

 

Now, clearly, thought I, there is no great difference between a fully grown man and myself, tiny and cute though I might be.  Really, really tiny and cute... picture Alice in Wonderland.  Four feet tall, annoyingly long hair, and a tendency for wandering off into dangerous and deadly parts of la-la land.  And yet, I would best this invisible opponent... and then, armed with this superiority, I would use such an amazing power to truly rule over the tiny minds contained within this bus, and all three of the other busses at the school!  And then, perhaps for an encore, enslaving even the students who did not ride the bus home!  I would be the QUEEN!

 

Honestly, it's a wonder I'm not a serial killer by now.  Tiny me was disturbed.  Grown me is.... okay, still disturbed, just too lazy to murder and enslave humanity as we know it.

 

Unlike what seems to be the norm, I was fully aware that hydration caused peeing, and took great care to use this to my advantage, refusing multiple drinks throughout the day.  My future minions need never know of this particular advantage, if it even was one... certain circumstances of my rather vague rival were left noticeably blank.

 

Even armed with this knowledge and the fires of evil at its finest, I didn't last long.  Maybe four hours?  It started to be uncomfortable fairly quickly, but surely this was nothing compared to the pain and suffering that came with being useless and inferior.  No twitching escaped, beyond perhaps a slight bit more energy to my carefully measured march of pure hatred towards any and all things.  No comments escaped either, as was the norm.  Talking is worthless if the target has no more understanding capacity than the average brick wall, or public-school eight year old.

 

It happened finally at recess, while I was playing with my favored minion, a rather weak-willed young lady from a broken home consisting of what had once been a teenage mother and a rather brain damaged half-brother.  We were participating in my particular favorite activity; collecting interesting rocks from a certain corner of the playground.  My uniform of conquest at the time was a neat cotton tee shirt dress (the sort made from a plain shirt with a bit of cloth sewn on as a skirt, typically short sleeved and round-necked with the skirt to the knees), which was rather conveniently un-constricting for the challenge, giving me the freedom to squat and examine said rocks.

 

To no one's particular surprise but my own, approximately the third or fourth time I squatted down, the dam burst, rather unexpectedly.  I'd been living with the pressure for hours at this point, and had felt no particular immediate warning signs.  If I had, damage might have been minimized, but as it was I pretty immediately soaked a good portion of the back of the skirt, and most of my socks, as well as a rather impressive patch of dirt.  My minion, loyal as ever, immediately began babbling... she'd had an accident the previous year, successfully hidden, and it dried.  Still, marinating in my own defeat, I couldn't handle wandering around in a wet dress, and regretfully dragged myself over to the teacher (to this day a favorite of mine, who is still in contact... with luck the shame of our first year of working together has been eclipsed by my adult achievements) to admit what I'd done.

 

Thus began the cycle of denial.  To the teacher, I thought I could wait.  To the nurse, who was a family friend outside of school, I just got distracted.  To my mother, who turned up minutes later with a pair of pants, fresh socks, and a blouse, I had no idea what happened.  To myself, I had been vanquished by the same invisible foe I had challenged, and domination of the children would have to wait for another day.

 

Near enough to the end of the school day, I returned home in company of my mother, who just shrugged and wrote it off to more of my being weird and silent, as was the norm.  The next day I was interrogated as to why I had missed the bus, when I had been on the bus just that morning.  I forget how I wrote it off, but I am convinced to this day that none of the neighborhood children who made up the interrogation team (and later, during middle and high school, grew into being nasty bullies) ever did figure out what happened.

 

This incident was the first and last true wetting accident of my living memory, not counting any around toilet training before I started forming proper memories of conquest and destruction.

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