One thing I've noticed through the years is, when you're a kid, you have very specific memories of what happened that have NO BASIS WHATSOEVER in reality. And yet you, as an adult, would swear on a stack of bibles and/or submit to a polygraph and pass it, utterly certain you saw what you saw.
Yes, Mojo has survived the bacchanal that was her SIX Year Old Friend's birthday party. Things have changed substantially since Mojo was a wee lass. Mojo does not recall ever being the subject of an actual party for starters; perhaps because she was always greedy enough to demand lemon-flavored cake, something that no one else in the family could stand. And she always had lemon cake because she was thereby assured she would be eating the majority of the cake all by herself. And to Mojo, eating cake was more important than maintaining friendships.
There's been a slew in the news lately of people who are professional trolls, to use the internet parlance--not Mojo, who is merely obnoxious for the fun of it, but people who are actually paid to say and do obnoxious things. These people say terrible terrible things for the attention, and everyone gets all worked up in a tizzy and how-can-they-SAY-that and look-at-me-look-how-offended-I-am-in-public and whatnot. And the professional trolls are laughing all the way to the bank.
Mojo's Favorite Mother's Vintage Sports Illustrated Magazine
Okay. No recounting of all of the childhood traumas Mojo is now re-experiencing will be complete without her Favorite Mother recounting the dating scene she enjoyed in college. Mom was a professor's brat at Penn State (although I will probably catch some major grief calling her a "brat") and either as such or in spite of such had an active social life. Active by Mojo's standards, anyway. Mojo, of course by contrast is something of a misanthrope and would rather sit and stare at the wall all evening than attend a sorority dance, but it just goes to show. What it shows, I'm not quite sure, but there ya go. I guess it means not only did the apple fall far from the tree but someone picked up that poor apple that never hurt anyone and flung it, and then it was trampled by pigs and left to rot in the mud. Anyway, for whatever reason, Mojo's Favorite Mother is what Mojo would call "Socie", which is not meant to be the slur it sometimes is but just in the social sense. Whereas Mojo has to be dragged kicking and screaming to certain events and really enjoys being left alone until she happens to get lonely and then she wonders why no one ever calls or writes unless they want something. And of COURSE Mojo upped and married a social butterfly thereby assuring she will never enjoy being alone, never again, and has since learned to communicate with humans through a series of grunts and hand gestures.
Despite my happy childhood, I am not without my childhood traumas. Since my upbringing itself was relatively uneventful, I used my active imagination to create dangers and drama where none existed. They ran the gamut from the obvious character-building traumas (i.e my parents never let us buy a pony and keep him in our suburban garage, due to some wild injustice they called "zoning laws") to things known only to myself. I reveal some of them them here for the first time.
Some are shared by many—circus clowns, of course, which soon morphed into clown dolls and from there to Evil Clown Dolls That Strangle You In Your Sleep. I also had an intense dislike of Raggedy Ann and Andy (the only difference between the two was Andy apparently wore a kicky sailor hat). I did not like Raggedy Ann because I was given a book of her stories and the illustrations had these dolls walking around interacting with real things (animals and whatnot) in a manner I found most unnatural and spooky. (My concerns proved to be well-founded when I got older and read of that famous evil ghost-hunting husband and wife team who had a demon-possessed Raggedy Ann who apparently tried to strangle her owners in their sleep. You see? They are Evil, I tell you! Eeeeeeevil!)
Despite my happy childhood, I am not without my childhood traumas. Since my upbringing itself was uneventful, I used my active imagination to create dangers and drama where none existed. They ran the gamut from the obvious character-building traumas (i.e my parents never let us buy a pony and keep him in our suburban garage, due to some wild injustice they called "zoning laws") to things known only to myself. I reveal them here for the first time.
Some are shared by many
(minus that litter box smell...)!
You might not know it from reading these descriptions, but despite my snarkiness I actually hail from a fully functional, loving family. My upbringing was pure Leave It To Beaver in that most of my childhood traumas revolved around Not Getting The Part in the School Play or Eddie Haskell Said a Mean Thing About Me Behind My Back, and not the really awful things some kids live through nowadays (and back then, too, but it was all hidden so nice people could at least pretend it didn't exist and lament about how much nicer it was back then).