Why Kids Are Weird
My friend K’s room was airy and light. It was carpeted blue with a white iron bed and thin flowered curtains; mine was Raggedy Ann and Andy yellow and red. We were more girls in her room, mere steps away from a glamorous green bathroom with clear bulbs and deep bath, where mermaids swam. In her room, our stories were romantic, sweeping—they carried us away.
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Behind the swirls of the curtains, feet embedded deeply in the plush of the carpet, she whispered to him, “It’s you I love, and we will find a way to be together. Her gloved hand stroked his gleaming head, her red lips smothered him with kisses. His face was locked into a grin, but this was a smile beyond happiness: how did he deserve to be so lucky? With his baked potato nose and bald head, he did not cut a striking figure, yet she loved him, loved him deeply. “Ziggy” she would whisper “I love you deeply.” and he would whisper, choked, blinded by tears: “I love you too, Ms. Pacman.” Her life moved him, her difficult, decadent life hinted at by her ribbons and high heels. She had been a video game bride and this tumultuous relationship had left her bereft of a first name. Her husband, goblin-chaser, had grown too busy for her, and they had parted. Ziggy was everything she now hoped for: dependable, devoted, tractable, and soon they would be married. But it was not so simple; bliss was not so easily theirs.
Soon, things (life, love etc.) would change forever, due to the villainous Mr. Lock.
Mr. Lock was one-dimensional: evil. He made demonic plans to swoop down upon Ms. P. (he was gifted with flight when he wore his special silken bathrobe) and he carried these out. Cackling cruelly, he seized Ms. Pacman, who kicked her legs and screamed “Ziggy! Ziggy!” Then, before Ziggy could heed her cry, Mr. Lock hid her far away, across the room in his bedland palace of down and doom. He would torture her with words and with his laugh—it was all he had. He had no face, no arms, no body—he was literally a lock in man’s clothing (Not even. The bathrobe was Barbie’s.) Ziggy didn’t have a neck, but at least he had a face, a body. He would get her back. They would they would have their happily afters….he would see to it.
And they did.
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Behind the swirls of the curtains, feet embedded deeply in the plush of the carpet, she whispered to him, “It’s you I love, and we will find a way to be together. Her gloved hand stroked his gleaming head, her red lips smothered him with kisses. His face was locked into a grin, but this was a smile beyond happiness: how did he deserve to be so lucky? With his baked potato nose and bald head, he did not cut a striking figure, yet she loved him, loved him deeply. “Ziggy” she would whisper “I love you deeply.” and he would whisper, choked, blinded by tears: “I love you too, Ms. Pacman.” Her life moved him, her difficult, decadent life hinted at by her ribbons and high heels. She had been a video game bride and this tumultuous relationship had left her bereft of a first name. Her husband, goblin-chaser, had grown too busy for her, and they had parted. Ziggy was everything she now hoped for: dependable, devoted, tractable, and soon they would be married. But it was not so simple; bliss was not so easily theirs.
Soon, things (life, love etc.) would change forever, due to the villainous Mr. Lock.
Mr. Lock was one-dimensional: evil. He made demonic plans to swoop down upon Ms. P. (he was gifted with flight when he wore his special silken bathrobe) and he carried these out. Cackling cruelly, he seized Ms. Pacman, who kicked her legs and screamed “Ziggy! Ziggy!” Then, before Ziggy could heed her cry, Mr. Lock hid her far away, across the room in his bedland palace of down and doom. He would torture her with words and with his laugh—it was all he had. He had no face, no arms, no body—he was literally a lock in man’s clothing (Not even. The bathrobe was Barbie’s.) Ziggy didn’t have a neck, but at least he had a face, a body. He would get her back. They would they would have their happily afters….he would see to it.
And they did.
posted by betsytacy at 10:32 AM
3 Comments:
More like "How Weird Are Kids" than "Why Kids are Weird," I think. I still want to know the why, particularly now that my own little weirdo grows inside the ever-larger tummy of T.
My morality plays, always outside in the strident sunlight of Newport Beach, tended to end with Han Solo falling from a great height to his death. Han was never the villain nor the hero, but a complicated man unaware of his flaws and thus doomed to die.
That is, until I discovered I could split Boba Fett open and fill him with Green Slime (tm) so that when he fell he would spill his guts on the sidewalk. Then Boba Fett tended to die.
oh, i love that. loved the omnipresence of slime, for a time.
did any real american heroes ever come in to rescue han? (meaning joes, of course).
No, I tried to segregate my vastly larger Star Wars forces from the paltry squad of GI Joes I had.
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