BigSlam123b
Only happy When It Rains
Were you to clamber into the time machine you've had hidden in your basement all these years and travel to my home circa 1989, so as you could search through my bedroom and peruse the dark secrets within, you would find many things. On the walls you would see the Nintendo Power Game calendar, each day carefully marked to count the time remaining until I could flip to the next month and no longer be greeted with a full glossy spread of King Hippo every morning. Alongside which, you would see tracings of Bowser and Bob-ombs taped to the wall that I copied out of magazines, which served to highlight my utter lack of artistic ability. In my dresser drawers you'd find a folder with Mario on the cover, busting out of the TV with handful of mushrooms in tow, possibly on the run from the DEA. By featuring Mario, the folder is too precious to dare use for school, so it stays in my room, holding more shameful attempts at basic visual representation. I had recently been at the home of a family friend, who had showed off her son's drawings and remarked on his technical ability as demonstrated in his picture of a fire escape outside of a multi-level apartment building. All straight lines and intricate detail. In my typical childhood attitude of "oh yeah well #### YOU", I had attempted the same that very night, and the result looked vaguely like Superman had wrapped a railroad track around a flophouse to detain the gang of stickmen drug dealers inside. In the drawer it goes. On top of this dresser you'd find my lunchbox, emblazoned with the image of the Mario brothers playing Zelda II and stinking like 5 month old milk poured on a dead dog's ass because I can't be bothered to ever wash the damn thing. I'm not made of time. These things would then all be destroyed when my angry black father came in swinging a baseball bat and you would be forced to run away to Mr. Strickland's house. We are NOT gonna be terrorized!
