I spent a lot of time in the closet. My parents would put me there when I was bad, when I did something wrong, or when they couldn't find a baby sitter. Sometimes they'd leave the light on, sometimes they'd turn it off, but one thing was for sure, there'd be spikes. I'm not sure if the spikes were there for the clothes or not, but they always seemed to be eye level, even as I grew. Sometimes there would be plastic bags with grape jelly on the inside and I'd .get to lick It off. My parents' faint chants of "Choke, choke, choke" from outside always soothed me while I did It.
When I was seven my parents told me I was going to get a little brother. Soon after that they brought him home and let me take care of him. He was adorable and was so nice to me until the day he bit me. I became violently III and had to be rushed to the hospital. Later they admitted that my little brother was actually a rabid squirrel. I don't think they thought about how much rabies shots hurt, otherwise they would have brought me a poisonous snake, They were so busy trying to find their next score, though, they didn't have time to think about It.
Before my first day of junior high my father kicked me in the groin. I don't think there was a point to
it, but he continued to kick me in the balls everyday for the rest of my grade school career. I think that's why I went away to college.
To potty train me, my parents would lock me In the closet with a potty and Instructions. They were stereo instructions, but it didn't matter because I couldn't read.
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Every so often they would come in to check on me and feed me pencil shavings. They didn't skimp either. They got the yummy blue pencils without erasers, none of this number 2 shit. So I spent a year and a half in the closet learning that I couldn't just poop on the floor. However, my first college roommate didn't understand why I kept shitting In his shoes. Now I just crap on the floor and I feel like the whole process was a waste.
But not everything was feces filled closets and kicks to the balls, we had our bad times too. My parents went through a "tough guy' stage. I had to be jumped in to the family before they recognized me as their son. I knew it had gone too far when my mom got her "Thug Life" tattoo across her stomach.
They eventually outgrew that behavior, but on occasion, I hear my mom say 'What the dilly, yo?"
My father has given me one drug talk my entire life and it went something like this, "Hey, hand me that pipe." My mom was In charge of the sex ed. When I asked where babies come from she told me it didn't matter because they were evil and they should be shot on site. If I ever feel like making my mom really proud I'll have to get an automatic weapon because kids run fast and I don't want to miss any of them.
Overall, I guess they did a pretty good job, I stopped wetting my bed last week and I think I might even be able to sleep with the light off sometime soon. |
