meximick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My dogs are gone... Resolution: I hereby resolve to cease indulging in the practice of binge drinking until such a time as I have resolved all financial irregularities; those irregularities consisting of late or "forgotten" payments to creditors, no matter the fact that such creditors are in fact cold-hearted, faceless corporations run by angry, petty people who were lacking in business sense when credit was given to me. ************************************************************Ahh. So I was going to wake up and get to the office extra early today to get some work out of the way. So obviously I arrived 10 minutes late. But still the first one in the office. I never had a big deal made about my birthday growing up, as I recall (though my memory has been pretty well blurred by drugs and alcohol use). Except that one year I had a birthday party at McDonald's. <----(my parents were very fucking creative. As I remember, it rocked pretty well, I guess.) The problem with birthdays so close to a major gift-giving holiday is obvious - 2-in-1 gifts. "This is your birthday/Christmas present." Fuck that! I want separate gifts for separate days, you lousy cheapskate bastards! Gimme more legos sets and old-school G.I. Joe toys. I want Transformers and that huge Millenium Falcoln that 16 years ago I cried when I got because it was my brother who had the superhardcore Star Wars fetish, not me. Sure I stopped playing with that weak-ass robot arm thing bought from Radio Shack the following year after about 15 minutes, but that remote control car two years later saw plenty of action. And my parents refused to buy us anymore Colecovision games after they caved in to our incessant demands to purchase the system - the end result being my brother shoplifting Zaxxon from JC Penny's. Oh, and I remembered two things recently which hopefully I'll gain some closure on when I decide I need a therapist. When I was about 5 or 6, I had a stuffed dog with furry, floppy ears named Charlie. My mother, an insane neatfreak was always after me to throw him in the washer, but I knew from past experience that only I was capable of handling and loving him, and my mom's repeated insistance to hand him over was further evidence that I was indeed doing the right thing. As I recall it was over a holiday break when we traditionally visited family in Albany. I don't remember when or where, and it prolly wouldn't be very fun to try and think back, but when I returned home I began the most difficult search of my life. "Charlie's gone!" I wailed. "Where's Charlie?". I tore through my room on a desperate hunt. My brother helped me find my beloved stuffed animal by sneaking up behind me and pushing me into my toychest as I searched frantically for my missing dog. He sat on the top until I yelled "Dennis is the awesomest brother in the world." And when I got out, I punched him in the arm and ran to the living room and crawled on my Dad's lap. Time passed.I slowly forgot about Charlie. Years later, I think it was about 5th or 6th grade, long past the time when having stuffed animals was cool anymore, that I asked my mom what had happened to my stuffed dog I had years back. She matter-of-factly told me how it had been dirty and had thrown it out before we left for that holiday trip. We had a long, drawn-out argument about how it had been my dog, and how she could have asked me, and how fucking wrong it was of her to just throw away my friend and how no other stuffed animal could have ever replaced him. 14:02:00 - 2000-12-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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