Tripped Boy Essay, Research Paper Little Toys in the Hands of an Ego Tripped god Well, let me introduce myself; my name is Chris Rodgers and as a child I was rather cleaver and many times extremely squirrelly. Because of that my childhood was even more interesting than most children?s. Many of the toys that characterized my essence when I was in the preteen years were the vintage models of the incredible G.I.
Tripped Boy Essay, Research Paper
Little Toys in the Hands of an Ego Tripped god
Well, let me introduce myself; my name is Chris Rodgers and as a child I was rather cleaver and many times extremely squirrelly. Because of that my childhood was even more interesting than most children?s. Many of the toys that characterized my essence when I was in the preteen years were the vintage models of the incredible G.I. Joes, The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Matchbox Cars, and Cabbage Patch Dolls (and yes I did have names for them).
Let me talk to you about these toys in a little detail so you can get an idea of why they characterized my childhood so much. As a child I was extremely ill from birth until around 4th grade. Since I had such a problem with my health I really didn?t socialize very much with many children (which may be why I am so outgoing now) but I sure knew how to have a blast with my toys. Sure, there were multitudes of toys floating from fad to fad but I knew who the true American hero was and that was G.I.Joe. Boy, I had such a great time with these toys! There was Joe and the evil Cobras (Man, they were tough ones). These two groups were formidable foes. I never understood why they would fight so much but I was sure that every time that they did I was getting all of the benefits from it. These guys were ruthless; they loved to torcher others, not with bodily harm but with early 80?s Contemporary Christian Music. Many times I sat there and I thought long and hard about how some of the prisoners were not insane or mentally handicapped after being tortured with my moms forms of destruction (which she called easy listening). Even though the cobras were brutal, somehow every time in the end when the dust had settled and they were about to take the Joes fort; there would always come a ray shining with hope from the distance when there was a back up of troops to dismantle the bad-guys. Because these guys were such studs; when I thought about me not able to go outside with kids was alright with it because the Joes were better than any boy or girl that I could hang out with (and I couldn?t get them sick either). These guys were rough, tough, and unbeatable- even if the chips were against them. Most of all they were my best friends for what I thought was going to be forever.
Unfortunately, around the second grade I realized that I my earlier longings of acceptance from those incredible plastic heroes had eroded to nothing more than just a sigh for what used to be. I soon became very pensive about this issue and my earlier emotional ties were broken and won over by how cool matchbox cars were. Even though people stated that there is not much creativity that can be drawn from these cars, I saw a world of fun and power behind it. I was not one of those children who wanted to be a NASCAR driver, nor did I want to be a stockcar driver. I wanted to be God. I wanted the power to just drive two cars at mock speeds into oblivion (or at least how fast I thought oblivion was). We would have the grandest of crashes; the most spectacular of daredevil events, but the greatest perk was that everyone could die because I the grand master of ceremonies was happy. My older brother and I would get such a rush out of crashing our cars in different positions such as throwing the cars up on the roof where they would have to race back down and plummet to their demise or racing the cars in a muddy backyard brickyard. I had become the Napoleon of the NASCAR, the Castro of the Cars; I was grand dictator of who lived and who died. The weird thing that baffled me was that for every driver and car that I blew up in a fiery inferno there always came back one who was close to the exact replica of his father (or in some cases his brother).
This power trip drove me incisively for many months until a D-Day of sorts occurred. One evening my brother had been washing in the bath tub when he decided get out and drain the water. My mother had noticed that he was doing this by hearing the rushing of water down the pipes as they passed her through the walls directly down stairs from where he was as she was making dinner in the kitchen. She then rushed up stairs to tell him to save the rest of the water in the tub, but she had come too late and the water had been lost. This was not a problem but she had to watch the stove downstairs so she explained to my brother that he need to draw some water into the bathtub and that he shouldn?t make it too hot for me. Well, he did put water in the bathtub but he had forgotten to tell me two important articles of information: first, he had soaped down the bathtub rail so that he could slide his cars on it and into the water. This had been the very reason in my opinion why I took baths. I never realized that one must get clean in order to get out of the tub, I just figured that every boy in the world would take their cars and soap down the rail and run the fastest one on the track so they could go into a spiral death loop and crash into the wall where they would try to back up but descend into the water where if the death loop had not gotten them then the water would. Now
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