It might be all the psychology classes I’m taking, or it could just be that there’s a tiny little elf-creature taking over my soul, but I feel like I’m regressing back into a state of child-like dependency.
I’ve been doing some things lately that only a five year-old who had just guzzled about a dozen sugar straws would do.
I AM HYPER ALL THE F***** TIME.
Also, I’ve started dancing like this:
Wait, that’s not necessarily child-like, you say?
Lots of people dance like chubby, post-ice-cream-binge kids?
Well, LET ME FINISH. PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE. IT’S TIME YOU SHOULD LEARN THAT.
Anyways, I’ve also started collecting stuffed animals. And this is really weird for me. Did those italics get through to you? REALLY WEIRD.
Because I was one of those kids who stuck up their nose at the idea of cuddling with a plush friend when sad, or having a tea party with Mr. Tinkles the Small-Bladdered Bunny. I just didn’t get the point. Why play with a stuffed animal that is clearly fake, when you could create things using your imagination that were 10x more fun!
So then I’d go outside and pretend to be a forensics specialist and make my friends give me blood samples so I could look at them under my microscope.
I was eight.
Did I mention that I wouldn’t let my friends touch their own blood samples (which I kept between two slides, all professional and shit), because I didn’t want to contaminate them?
I was all like:
It seriously took me about 10 years to realize that science is really hard and stupid. Thanks childhood fantasies. (Of the non-sexual nature. Not that I had the other kind, but you know, kids will be kids and stuff and I think I’ve gone too far.)
I just thought that playing with stuffed animals and Barbies was a sign of weakness. I pretty much wrote people off if they liked those things. I remember meeting one chick when I was about 10 at some family friend’s party and she started telling me all about her Beanie Baby collection. I just remember thinking:
“I can’t be friends with this bitch.”
I had just learned the B word.
I was also (and still kind of am, I won’t lie to you, internet mole people) deathly afraid of dolls. Any kind of doll, but Porcelain China Dolls were the fucking creepiest m****f*****s ever to exist. EVER.
Aaaaaaand thanks to my parents, I had two of them sitting on my dresser across from my bed, watching me sleep every night. And every night, I made my dad keep an eye on them until I fell asleep, so, you know, they wouldn’t shank me well I slept.
If you are not scared of this, I DON’T BELIEVE YOU.
Why didn’t I just get rid of them?
STOP ASKING SO MANY GODDAMN QUESTIONS.
I actually had some pretty good logic, for an eight year old.
I didn’t want to make them mad.
Tell me this doesn’t want to make you cry and urinate simultaneously.
My parents got pretty tired of this by the time I was 10 (…or 11), and my dad bit one of them on the head and then dropped her on the floor so that I could see how fake she was and not at all under the murderous rage of a demon spirit.
It didn’t help.
I started screaming: “DADDY!! NOOOO, YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE HER MAD!!! SHE’S GOING TO HURT YOU, NOOOOO!”
I was literally sobbing. SOBBING.
I truly believed that my dad would be killed for his flagrant disregard for the porcelain evilness of my dolls.
Me. Every night. Until puberty.
So you understand that my new interest in stuffed animals is a big step forward.
I don’t think they’re stupid and pointless anymore, or a sign of weakness. But dolls are still f******* scary and should not be sold anywhere because children should not be exposed to such horror.
BUT LOOK HOW CUTE THESE ARE:
The eyes. It’s all in the eyes.
Yeah. That’s right. What you just felt was your heart expanding with more love than even Beyonce and Jay-Z have for each other.
And that’s saying a lot.
The other thing I’ve been doing a lot of is watching children’s movies.
Like, a lot.
Every time I’m hungover, I reach for (/torrent) my copy of (/download of) Shrek or Shrek 2, or Scooby-Doo, or Scooby-Doo 2, or The Little Mermaid, or The Little Mermaid 2, and, well, you get the picture.
One of my friends came into my room while I was watching Beauty and the Beast, and caught me laughing hysterically at Gaston’s douchey antics.
He looked pretty disgusted and confused and immediately left, but I didn’t care, I was in a state of cartoon ecstasy.
What I looked like:
What was going on on-screen:
I think I may have over-reacted.
Or maybe I was just hungover.
Or maybe Gaston is just the funniest b**** this side of California. (I don’t know what that means, but you can figure it out yourself, you lazy piece of rotting diaper.)
I also recently watched Shrek, which I still maintain is one of the funniest movies ever made this side of California.
Oh, donkey, you noble rascally steed, you!
After I watched it for probably the 60th time, I found my school journal from 2nd grade. One of my entries went like this (and this is verbatim):
“On the weekend, I went to see Shrek. It was so funny. Donkey said: “That is a nice boulder” and “In the morning I’m making waffles,” and then he married a dragon. It was so funny. And Shrek burped a lot and said “Better out than in” and Fiona made a bird explode with her voice which was so funny. It was the best weekend ever because I saw Shrek.”
Any weekend is the best weekend when Shrek is involved.
I had to face the conclusion that I have not changed at all since I was seven years-old. It was a hard fact to face, but… Shrek.
I’m pretty sure that this is my way of coping with the adult world into which I’ve been so unceremoniously thrown, like a poor 18 year-old heroin addict into prostitution.
I’ve got Peter Pan syndrome, man!
And I think most of us do, and it just manifests itself in different ways.
Some people get drunk off their asses every night and refuse to do work.
Others have panic attacks that lead to chronic chocolate-eating regarding their futures.
Me? I just act like a child.
And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.
Until I have to get a job and figure my shit out and try to become a contributing member of society. But until then, I think holding onto my child-like excitement is a good thing. So go autoerotically asphyxiate yourself if you disagree.
Because children are so optimistic and imaginative- it’s a shame that most of us lose that as we get older.
As Pablo Picasso said:
Some of you might be like: “Kids are stupid and don’t know anything, why would I ever want to be like them?”
Because they get to live in any world they want to. Anything they create inside their heads is real to them. They aren’t confined by the physical limitations of our world. They can be a witch one day, a superhero the next. They can hide under the covers from the monster they know is lurking under their bed, or become convinced that their house is haunted. They can be popstars, explorers, and secret agents. They can be anything they want, and it’s all real to them.
It’s sad that adults lose this deep imagination, but I guess it’s a natural developmental progression. But I, for one, am going to make sure that I don’t lose hold of it completely.
Because what’s the point of growing up if you can’t dream?