Does it look like me?

I'm taking votes on which painting you all think is my self-portrait.
(A) A colorful and wild girl with a serene, mature, placid overlay....
or
















(B) A jar of pickles.



















The answer of course is B, the jar of pickles. I’m pretty much a jar of pickles.
And not just because I love them, because I do love pickles. Mmmmm, do I ever! In fact for my ninth birthday, the gift that surpassed all others was a big, round, green gallon jug of Seinfeld’s Kosher Dill Pickles!!!! Who could think of a better gift? Those bad boys lasted me for months! It was a fabulous, thoughtful gift (thanks Mandi, you’re a swell sis), and as yet, has been unmatched. (They don’t make pickle jars any bigger than that)
In the old days when my little brother Monte and I were small, we could think of nothing tastier to feast upon than a juicy pickle. We’d craftily butter Mom up with shamefacedness and sobriety (that means doing our chores on time) and then pop the question. Nothing could quell our delight upon the receipt of an affirmative response, and race to refrigerator we did, grubby little fingers hastily groping around in dilly brine for the plumpest x-cucumber in the jar. Then, when tongue met pickle, a sensation indescribable of salt, dill and crunch filled our happy smiles and no one heard much from the now impickled twosome for a while, so engrossed were they in their nibbling.
Yep, those were the old days, before my little pipsqueak brother turned into the Eiffel Tower. I’ll never forget the day he proudly announced to me that he weighed more than I did. Hmph. He probably ate more pickles than me. >:-