Some kids, when you show them a cardboard box with squares cut into it and miniature cardboard furniture inside, will look at you while they rip the box apart and call you a moron.
Some kids love homemade toys.
Some kids skin animals in the forest because they’re “curious”.
Some kids are robbed by (or gifted with) an imagination that sucks them away from Earth and into a different consciousness, like Jani Schofield. But that’s a whole other opinion waiting to happen, so let’s move on.
Then there are kids who were like me, a lot probably, who teeter somewhere between what you would expect in an imagination and what you wouldn’t expect. Or maybe you should expect everything, and that fact that people don’t is why some kids are “normal” and others aren’t.
This thought came to me today, a few minutes ago, a memory that had been long hidden that for some reason was brought out by watching eleven minute YouTube videos of people scarfing down Carolina Reaper peppers.
When I was still in elementary school, we only had one car and it was a truck my mother used to get to work in. My father would walk with me to school and from school. On the corner about two blocks away from my school, there was a little orange market that sold cold drinks, ice cream, and these weird little pastry balls filled with meat. I don’t remember what they were, and I haven’t seen anything like them sense. The market was owned by a family with some kind of Asian descent, so I believe it was a home recipe of theirs. This market is now Front Street Offices. Kind of weird to think about.
I was sad when that little market went away. I was in there almost every day, and across the street from them I found a really heavy, large, expensive-looking watch hanging in a tree. I still have it.
I didn’t like the pastry things. I didn’t know what kind of meat it was, and it smelled like someone boiled the dough, stuffed it with meat, and sprayed some more tap water on it to keep it moist. I don’t know.
I used to get Push Pops. I think those still exist. These things:
I liked them until one day I got a red one. I got a red one and ate it happily until there was some weird, slimy mass in my mouth. In fact, there were two of them. I stopped eating and spit it out. I looked at the chunky globs: the Push Pop had frozen off my tonsils. That’s what they were, they were my tonsils and I was standing there terrified, trying to halfway swallow my tongue so I could see if my tonsils were there or not (I couldn’t feel them), and almost crying because was I bleeding? I was!!! Was I going to die? I was going to die. Why was the Push Pop Company trying to murder me? Can I not even trust ice cream in this godforsaken world?
I didn’t tell my father why I had spit out the chunks. There were no more in the ice cream, so I licked it, paralyzed mentally, until the rest of the murdersicle was gone.
When I didn’t die, I started getting scientific. I knew I couldn’t come to a conclusion about my tonsils because a true theory needs to be tested with multiple experiments. My finishing hypothesis was that the Push Pop hadn’t taken out my tonsils, but that they were putting meat or organs in the ice cream. In order to test that, I would need some more red Push Pops.
I was about seven or eight.
So I got another Push Pop. I got another. And another. They ALL had chunks.
I never ate another Push Pop after that, not the orange ones, not the multi-colored ones. I stopped eating Popsicles in general for many years. Because Push Pop was lying to the masses and putting OTHER people’s tonsils, their organs, KIDS ORGANS into their ice cream, the sadistic bastards.
It wasn’t until I started high school did that fear subside and did I realize, after finally eating a Push Pop styled ice cream, that the red chunks were strawberries.
That was a lot of years of fearing popsicles. Six years to be exact.
Things have never really been what they’ve seemed to me, and I’ve been open to all possibilities, bizarre or not. Why did I revert to this non-common-common-sense tactic of mine as a child, I don’t really know. I think at that point I was so used to weird shit happening—all the nightmares, the demons in the woods, time travel, learning about the weird world of quantum physics (although I didn’t understand much of it until Junior High)—that corporations shoving children’s tonsils and organs into ice cream didn’t seem that far off.
I guess these memories are popping up more frequently because 1) my birthday is coming up and everything in my childhood seems so separate at this point, so separate from me and my life and 2) because of drones and the puppet Trump and whichever world organization is his puppet master, and police and that boiling Culture Of Fear that’s brewing on the stove top of this world.
Maybe the red chunks in our ice cream ARE tonsils. Maybe every single thought I’ve ever had is true and real and if so then I guess I don’t have any reason to fear them.
Tonsil ice cream tastes great.
*Note* I actually fucking HATE strawberry ice cream. It might have something to do with the truama of all the aforementioned.