Your name was Monica and you'd always considered yourself a dancer, you were three years old.
One day, your parents sat you down for a talk.
"Am I in trouble?" you asked.
"No, it's nothing like that," said your father, "It's just that we've heard of ballet classes coming out!"
"Hooray!" you shouted, doing a little dance.
"But," said your mother, "They're not coming out until next year and you need to be potty-trained to join."
You had mixed feelings. You really, really wanted to be a ballerina but a year was a long time to wait and besides, you liked wearing your diapers; they were familiar.
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