It was one thing when I recently admitted all my lifelong nightmares to my mother. Even now, I'm afraid she'll have me committed. All the same, when I did, all I got was, "Yeah, you always had a lot of nightmares."
Huh!? OK, I guess it stands to reason that she'd have noticed, but it just seemed weird that I would not know, late into my 20s, that my own mother knew I had some strange shit cooking up in the old brain pan.
Well, now I've even managed to creep myself out. I just found my third-grade composition notebooks, in which I had to write stuff a couple of times a week. They'd usually give a topic, but we weren't required to follow it. I'd often write about getting my own helicopter or getting out of school early.
In flipping through my literary genius, though, I found a very short entry (they were all short - it was third grade), and rereading it now, I wonder that I wasn't walked straight down to the school therapist. It essentially said the following:
"Everyone's going to die someday, but not me! I'm not going to die, because I'm already dead! Haha!"
What the jumping shit!? I wrote that? At the tender age of 8?
I have no response to my own deranged thought processes.
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