Why I Should Likely Seek Help

So I was struck with a completely random power outtage several hours ago. It's pouring down rain outside, but there is no thunder. Jumped out as strange to me, until my bedroom door randomly thrown open. The Anti-Occam's Razor Theory I like thinking about(in which instead of the most obvious solution I think of the most ridiculous way possible to explain things) is that one of my great great great great grand uncles from the Cherokee tribe's ghost had to bust into my door to tell me about a sale on handbags at the J.C. Penny's at the mall. Which is odd since I have no interest in handbags, wondering why one of my dead uncles from the late 1700s even cares or knows what a handbag is, and why did he manifest himself in spirit to me randomly all this time only to annoyingly throw my door open then forget to tell me about the handbag sale.

But if you really want to disagree with my perfectly logical theory, I guess we can just say it was the wind. And while we're going with your crazy person logic, we'll say the wind was responsible for the power outage too.

So I was left in the dark with nothing to do, so I turned my Nintendo DS I never played into a makeshift reading light and set forth to tackling my fresh bounty I stole from the library today. It was either that or sleep, and we all know sleep is vastly overrated. I went forth and read the first 90 pages of Stephen King's On Writing. It was suggested by the Something Awful forums, and even though I disliked The Mist for the most part, hey it can't hurt. I mean, he's a ludicrously famous and rich writer and I'm not. Even if all his stories are about writers from New England. He might have something worth saying on the field.

The book is apparently half-autobiography and he brought up a decent point- lots of people can't remember shit when they get to that age. A friend of mine in her 30s's earliest memory is apparently one of kindergarten. Her memory might just not be good, but hell if I know, but I figure let's be hypothetical and say our young memories wither as we age. So on behalf of the unlikely chance I become ludicrously successful and famous enough to warrant writing my own autobiographical account, I shall now post here, for all of the Internet to see, and possibly myself in forty or so years, my earliest memory at the time of my age being 21 years, 8 months, 25 days.

I had to have been no older than one. I was still in a white crib, and I actually remember getting my head caught in there at least once. So that may have been my earliest memory, but screw that, I don't remember anything about it and I wouldn't be telling you this if it wasn't at least mildly interesting. I suppose my head getting stuck in crib bars is plenty interesting if you're some sort of infant-hating sadist, but I'm getting off track here. It was the middle of the night, must have been three at night or so- proving that I was never a sound sleeper, even as an infant. I gathered this, not because I was a super genius who could tell time at the age of one, but because my parents were both asleep. My mother was quite the insomiac and would commonly stay up to watch all the late night talk shows and not sleep until quite some time afterwards. People's practices never change much over the years when you start to hit that comfortable stride- so something she did when I was six was something very likely she did when I was a toddler. I sat up and looked around. One year olds don't know good enough to see that it's still dark out to turn over and go back to sleep, that's wisdom not gained until about age twelve- for me anyway.

Little old me of course, decided to engage in a conversation with a piece of gum on the wall. The Tetricks were never the tidiest of people, and I'm sure my brother just happened to love his gum, and slapping it against the wall wherever instead of putting it in the trash. It must of been grape because I clearly remember the gum being purple. I can't remember the foggiest what I was talking to the gum about, probably because as I couldn't yet speak I don't think I was the best orator. All I can remember is the gum taunting me, and it upset me. All I think I did was did my best to protest as much as this toddler vs. gum argument can go. I don't think I cried, as no one ran in to check on me. I must of got tired of it eventually as I realized I couldn't escape the crib and there wasn't really much I could do so I went back to sleep.

Only to one year old me, I wasn't arguing with gum. I was arguing with some anthropomorphic personification of the moon. A blue crescent moon wearing sunglasses, who I remember talking to me in some Barry White-ish voice while mocking me, probably because I couldn't reach him, the crib bars barring all the rage and fury my infant self could unleash upon his fragile Already Been Chewed Form.

Being older and presumably wiser, I now know who my oldest nemesis and rival supposedly is.

Mac Tonight.

Now at some point earlier that day I must of seen this commercial on television and it struck a cord with me. My toddler mind must have decided that I just didn't like this random and once used advertising McDonalds Mascot. Maybe I just dislike people with really long heads, or people who wear sunglasses at night time. I knew that was stupid even then.

Or maybe I should be more concerned with why I was a one year old kid who was hallucinating a conversation with a piece of chewed gum and should probably ask my relatives if there was a possibility I was being slipped LSD at such a young age. I know I was given a beer around this time as well, so maybe they thought one is the perfect age to experiment with drugs and alcohol. Get it out of my system early.

This, folks, is why I don't drink and stay off the drugs. I'm giving my parents the benefit of the doubt that I wasn't a one year old who was on an acid trip, and that my mind is perfectly fugged up enough already that I don't need to mess with it's chemistry anymore out of fear of something completely fuggin nutbar happening like making me come up with the cure for AIDs or becoming the Prime Minister of France after a random night of hard drinking.

Reflecting, I have many more fugged up stories I could force out here, but that's another story for another time- maybe next time in fact. Join me next time as I tell the stories of how I almost die thrice at the tender age of four through random accidents, same I need to be committed time, same I need to be committed channel.