Childhood

Ahhhh… Childhood. The old days when the Three Little Pigs lost all their houses to the Big Bad Wolf, or when Glodie Locks broke into a house to care to her own needs with the Three Bears’ stuff.

Despite my knowledge of children’s stories, I’ve never really had a favorite, because my parents never read them to me and my brother’s are childhood ruiners. I grew up thinking they were all so unreasonable and stupid.

Random chick: “Well then you really didn’t have a childhood did you, because my parents read me all of those when I was little, and as a child I lived life with happiness all the time.”

Well good for you, because when I was little I looked at everything skeptically- not so much now, but hear me out. My brothers are all older than me, by at least 14 years, and so by the time my parents got around to reading me “kiddie” things, my brothers had already told me everything from their points of view so I never really went into a story blindly, because  I always had someone to spoil it with reality for me. I loved my brothers so everything they said to me at the time was correct. I have sense grown out of that love because they are all total jerks for doing that to me.

Humpty Dumpty wasn’t necessarily an egg, Cinderella only got noticed because she was the only one in white, and was blonde, and Little Red Ridinghood was dumb enough to go alone to her grandmother’s house in the woods and deserved to be eaten…

Can you see where I’m going with this?

My brother’s ruined all of my impractical happiness’s as a child, so, as Forest Gump would say, “That’s all I have to say about that.”