Ah, childhood emotional trauma. We've all experienced it, and whether it was in the form of your mother telling you that you're a pussy for not taking the hit in football, your father for berating you over not setting the table properly, your big sister telling you that you're a cocksucking little Amish midget with one leg shorter than the other and defenestrating you from the third window of a building onto a crumbled sidewalk full of sharpened knives and broken glass and fecal matter and then driving a steamroller with spikes on the huge rolling-thing to make sure you're dead but then not really killing you and having you come back as a horrifically disfigured and wonderfully powerful supervillain who is forced to wear the skins of their enemies on their head because they have no bones in the front of their face and the mere sight of their gory and inhuman visage is capable of driving full-grown men - nay, full-grown men with cybernetic anti-fear-and-insanity implants - to pants-shitting fearful insanity, none can deny that it leaves a permanent impression on our fragile cocksucking little Amish midget with one leg shorter than the other lives.
I like to think that I, in my ever-gloomy-and-hopeless upper-middle-class tall white teenage male plight, have had it tough in the sixteen-odd years of my life. Therefore, this gives me full reign to give one-hundred-percent-reliable lectures on subjects including but not limited to the full and complete list of effects of childhood trauma as dictated by me (the smartest person in the world, me-certified), glass-blowing, skydiving, flame-swallowing, jumping into tanks of hydrochloric acid, eating an entire bottle of Tylenol in one sitting, falling headfirst off tall skyscrapers, and the comparison between the ancient Egyptian god-king Akhenaton and the later Roman lord Augustus Ceasar and the trends in the respective art-periods that they spawned and/or heavily influenced; however, today, I'll merely be sticking to the extreme former. Sux2bu.
Times were tough, growing up in a house we owned, on a three-acre piece of land, with dad working the day-shift as boss of a real-estate company and mom being a very intelligent and forgiving mother who nary said a bad word to children, let alone do anything to harm them in any way. Obviously, in such situations, the children turn to harsh infighting, and my big sister and I were, sadly, no exception; we'd fallen through the cracks, and as I was a good eleven years younger and half as tall, she had full reign of the house. She was allowed to take cereal-boxes and pieces of chocolate into her room, while all I was allowed to do in my rather large room with a cathedral-ceiling and skylight was to scatter out my numerous toys from wall to wall and contemplate the agony of childhood. But oh no, it didn't stop there. Much like an elder squirrel eating the squirrel-tribe's entire batch of baby and adolescent squirrels whole and alive because one of them gave off the mental thought-waves of thinking about the elder's stash of acorns - which, as all good squirrels know, doesn't exist and is just a figment of the godless freethinkers' imaginations - my big sister ate my six-year-old dignity (said dignity consisting of running around with Play-Doh on my fingers and pretending to be the Monster From That Scary Movie That Mommy And Daddy Wouldn't Let Me Watch) whole, via the unholy bulldozer-chute-prison-cell-orphanage-po
ood-tool of sarcasm. What's that I hear your thought-waves say? Sarcasm? Yes, sarcasm. An endless orgy of "Oh, yeah RIGHT"s, "What-everrrrr"s, "SURE you will"s, and their ilk, rubbing their proverbial endlessly thrusting male sexual organs of blood and death against my innocence and hope, and thrusting them away in a similar way that a hooker that ran out of crack and sex and didn't get beaten by her pimp enough would also be thrusted away by the throbbing penises of sarcasm, into the pit of doom and despair and broken dreams and no cereal for breakfast because we're out of milk but we have pancakes and I don't like pancakes and I hate you mommy. I like to think that I'm making more sense than anyone (including me) can comprehend, so I'll let that stay. Anyways, the sarcasm eventually ground one side of my head down to a slant, put a chip on my shoulder, and made me into a little Amish midget with one leg shorter than the other, requiring me to have multiple beard-removal surgeries, among other corrective orthopedic measures. Eventually, my big sister moved out, but the damage was done; what good was it for me to have the house to myself (not counting my mom and dad), but only be able to reflexingly yell at the TV, "Oh, that's a REALLY good show! ...NOT!" every few seconds when my favorite cartoons were on, therefore ruining the viewing experience, and making me sad? I'll tell you what good it was: No good.
Times changed, though, and I evolved. Not in the Pokemon-like glow-and-then-become-stronger-and-more-p
owerful-and-cool-looking way, which I wish for every day on the hour to happen, even when I'm asleep or unconscious or dying, but unluckily, it doesn't (yet); but in the I'm-becoming-better-as-a-person-and-gee-m
g-I'm-so-fucking-pathetic kind of way, which I think is stupid and should be phased out of manufacturing in favor of the former method that, in my opinion, would make the world that much closer to a utopian paradise where ten-year-old boys run away from home with a backpack full of trinkets, and battle whimsical creatures to the death against one another for large sums of money. Back on track: My sarcasm was eventually nurtured in the garden of my brain, much as a mad scientist would nurture his genetically-engineered ten-foot-tall free-walking Venus flytrap in a garden of monstrosities that nature would never allow, until it goes crazy, consumes said scientist alive, and releases itself upon the hapless world, causing terror on an unimaginable scale, until it can only be eliminated by exploding the entire hemisphere of the planet on which it resides. Huh, whaddya know... an analogy that makes sense. But whereas I, in my ultimately super-intelligent intelligence, am nurturing sarcasm into a flowering blossom-stage similar to fine art in the Rennaisance and/or a wonderful homicidal ten-foot-tall Venus flytrap, my big sister took sarcasm and used it repeatedly and repetitively and restrictedly and redundantly every day, much like a hooker needs her daily crack, sex, and beatings from a pimp to survive. This is reflected in Raphaelangelo - the painter, not the Ninja Turtle, and how he took painting to a high art; whereas his lesser-known sister, Raphaelsexytits, incorporated painting into her erotic 'fun-dances', reserved only for the European elite, or the people who would slip her into a knockout-gas chamber and then bring her back to their mysterious underground fortresses and then force her to dance at gunpoint. And while Raphaelsexytits made far more money, acquaintances, and breeds of sexually-transmitted diseases than her brother, Raphaelangelo was, in time, revered as a master of his craft. I can safely say that this is how sarcasm pertains to me, so you should all save the future generations the trouble of discovering my true magnificence, and just revere me as a god of sarcasm now. You shall call me Super-King Firebreathing Chris of Many Burnings, and pray to me five times a day, while facing in the direction of wherever the hell I am. Should you not repeat the ode to my wonderfulness five times a day, even when unconscious, sleeping, or dying, you will be forever cast into the land of thrusting penises and blood and burning doom and endless sarcasm, where my big sister, the Taker of All Goodness and Eminator of Not-Good Stuff, rules all with a morbidly obese, sarcastic, gumbo-stained iron fist.
Moral of the story: .. Ah, hell, I don't know. Go fuck a dog's skull.