Things I learned from this blog entry
-My art is bad and I should feel bad
-coloring with markers was a bad idea
-drawing under the influence of caffeine is a really bad
idea because I can’t control my own damn hands
-Stop drawing small, Alexandria, you fuckwit
-I will color with colored pencils next time because I
remembered that I’m actually kind of good at using those even if it does take
longer
-other than that, fuck me. I have to start somewhere.
I was eight years old, it was summer vacation, and I was
bored out of my goddamn mind.
Sure, I was finally free of the
oppressive monotony of the 1st grade and I didn’t have any homework to do (not
that I ever turned in any homework when school was actually in session) but I
was also lacking the routine companionship of my elementary school peers. I
didn’t live near by any of my friends from school and due to my childish
tendency to accidentally set any and all electrical devices on fire, I wasn’t
allowed to use the telephone to call anyone up and make plans. I also couldn’t
ask my mother to dial the number of a friend’s house and set up a play-date for
me because she was at work. This left me no choice but to attempt some level of
diplomacy with the other life-force that was lurking in the room contiguous to
mine: My 11 year old brother, Etienne.
Etienne was an ominous being that
menaced in the depths of the darkest room of our apartment, which reeked
perpetually of his own flatulence from many consecutive days spent eating
Twinkies while playing Nintendo 64. His obscure summertime existence led me to
believe that he was less my brother and more of something that dwelled within
myth or a personal nightmare. Perhaps this is was his precise intention. Perhaps
he wanted to forsake his humanity in
hopes of becoming a darker force that was immune to falling asleep past 12am
and receiving punishment from my mother for any wrong-doing in order to
efficiently play Super Smash Brothers ad infinitum. I even had a particular
quote of his from a few days prior that validated my speculations.
But I couldn’t let my fears get the
better of me. My sanity was at stake. So I quit loitering in the hallway,
entered his lair, and made an innocent request of the beast.
Forlorn, I returned to the hallway.
I began to weigh my options. I could
return to my brother’s room and pester him until he allowed me to play, but
then I’d simply be asking for a one-sided boxing match. This summer was not
going well at all. And that’s when I heard something promising from my
television. The familiar exaggerated screams complimented by comical explosions
and 1960’s pop and jazz; Tom and Jerry
was on. Hell yeah, motherfucker. Then, something else most striking occurred
to me: I could amplify this afternoon
Hanna and Barbara experience with sugar because there was ice cream in the
freezer.
And so I promptly journeyed to the
kitchen to seek out my prize. I popped open the freezer and grabbed the box of
Flintstone’s Push-pops. There was one left and it was orange flavor. The best flavor. Try to name something better than this. Times up. You can't. You lose.
My brother wouldn’t care since he’d
long since selfishly commandeered the entire box of Twinkies from the pantry.
In fact, every time my mother bought Twinkies, he made it his mission in life
to make certain that I never received any. Not simply because he had an undying
love for processed yellow pastries, but because he was also a gigantic miserly
asshole that enjoyed watching the impoverished suffer. So now it was my turn to
indulge. I put the empty box back in the freezer, because well, I was eight
years old and didn’t know any better (Actually, no. Never mind. I still do this
with cereal boxes and it drives my mom crazy) and merrily shut the freezer door
and began peeling off the wrapper of my ice cream.
As I made my way down the yellowing
linoleum kitchen floor towards my room, my brother’s door abruptly swung open
and regurgitated the brooding figure of a Nintendo-addicted 11 year old boy
into the hallway. He quickly passed me on his way to the kitchen.
I heard the freezer pop open again
behind me, accompanied with an anguished grunting sound. I paid it no mind. Tom
and Jerry had already started. But my efforts to return to my bedroom were
quickly thwarted.
“YOU ATE THE LAST PUSHPOP?!”
I stopped dead in my tracks at the sound of his cryptic
bellows echoing through the kitchen. His agony paralyzed me. I could not run
away. I could only twist my head around to face the oncoming disaster.
My brother pushed me into the kitchen floor and I bumped my
head on an open cabinet corner.
I grabbed the part of my head where the cabinet had struck
and began to wail like a newborn. This is when Etienne reverted back from beast
to older brother, realized the horrible thing he had just done to his 8 year
old sister over at popsicle and tried his best to console me. He stressed how
sorry he was and begged me not to tell mom. He eventually appeased me by
allowing me to play video games with him if I promised not to tattle. So we
went back to his room.
He began
setting up 2-player mode on Super Smash Brothers and handed me the 2nd
controller, which I grabbed with my single available hand. I began fumbling
around with the joystick in a fairly sad attempt to select Pikachu.
“If you want to play, you have to use two hands, stupid.”
He was right. My efforts to play one-handed would be
inevitably fruitless. And my head was already feeling somewhat better so I
removed my other hand.
I began crying and screaming twice as loud as before because
holy shit my brother was a goddamned murderer. We had to call mom.
Mom had to come back early from work to take me to the
hospital.
And she was mad as hell.
Thankfully, the doctors said I would be okay. It was only a
surface wound and an X-ray wasn’t even necessary. Even so, I was placed into this strange contraption that the doctors claimed was only needed to further examine my head.
In reality, they had to staple my scalp back together.
And the following day, my mom hired a babysitter.
