When I was young, kidnapping was big business. In reality, it wasn't a business so much as a hobby. A hobby for sick fuckers in late model vans trolling the neighborhood for hot, pink grade school ass. Every night on the evening news, the anchors would tell my parents and me about another child gone missing. My lack of geographical knowledge led me to believe that all this shit was going down a mile from my house. I was THREE DAY COKE BENDER paranoid. Had I known what they did to the children when they got 'em, I would've duct-taped my asshole shut and filed my baby teeth pointy.
I had code words, hand-signals, 'don't go with that guy' hand signals (like the index through a closed OK symbol), and curfews. Watching maximum security lock-up documentaries give me a warm, fuzzy feeling. With the threat long since passed, I can reveal that the code word was my favorite cookie which I can never enjoy fully even now. As a child, I would be reminded of the stark realities of the world, washing down my password cookies with milk from a carton showcasing missing children on the back like a Dillinger wanted poster.
I can't talk to people. If you aren't a friend of a close family member, a friend of a coworker I HAVE to talk to, or a neighbor (and only if you're blocking my driveway), I likely haven't spoken a word to you. Though I would welcome the opportunity to get kidnapped (good luck fitting me into a 55 gallon container), the anxiety that comes along with such a horrible event is attached to every introduction I have to make. I hate saying my own name. If I wasn't such a cheap bastard, I would get business cards to avoid having to say it. Or milk cartons.
No comments:
Post a Comment