For example, sometimes I wonder if people can read my mind. When strangers give me a look, or a friend doesn't see me in the hallway, I always come up with this horrible idea that they've somehow discovered that I was just thinking about putting peanut butter on my feet or dumping glitter on a hippopotamus. Other times, I wonder if my friends and family get kidnapped when I'm not looking and swapped out with robots. Not because of any particular diabolical scheme or anything, just because someone, somewhere, had too much time on their hands.
And I know I've had these thoughts all my life. Despite my horrible memory, I do know that when I was seven(ish), I was absolutely certain that I was the princess of something. Fact check: Yes, I am, and have always been, a boy. Yes, I meant princess.I was a misguided child to be sure.
Take this photo, for example. What in the world was my chubby self thinking? Perhaps I believed the reason my personal stroller pusher (A.K.A. daddy) had been turned into seeds which red eyed, feathered demons were now devouring. Or maybe I was just upset that my personal stroller pusher stopped pushing me in order to point a silly camera at me while I sat confused in the middle of the street. Clearly, I was a very important baby. I had places to go and babies to meet, and I obviously couldn't be expected to butt-scooch my way there. Do you see those wheels? The ground is filthy.
"Out of my way you filthy birds!"
ReplyDeleteA lot of honest and truthful reflections in this post. Yes, you will end up in an asylum. Yes, you were, and still are, a princess. (A metaphor for your spoiled-ness.)