Not to cuss.
Not to cohabitate.
Not to use that language.
Not to go in the first place.
Not to invest in Telecom stocks.
Not to date sluts.
Not to eat with my hands.
Not to drink from the filthy bucket.
Not to train octopi.
Not to beat myself with slotted spoons.
Not to mix plaids and stripes.
Not to wiggle.
Not to beat eggs for an omelet during Uncle Freddie’s funeral.
Not to save and collect my empty enemas.
Not to smell my feet.
Not to banish Captain Snuggles to the washing machine.
Not to lick the poison mushrooms.
Not to unlock the closet.
Not to wear her bras.
Not to play with the children under the stairs.
Not to juggle the plutonium.
Not to smoke her cigars.
Not to seethe.
Not to let the dogs out, because she’ll know who did it.
Not to cry like a big, fat, hairy little girl.
Not to dance dirty.
Not to fiddle with my colostomy bag.
Not to get jiggy with it, or anything for that matter.
Not to tap on my brother’s iron lung.
Not to take candy from strangers.
Not to let Dad out of the closet.