Childhood is not childhood unless you’ve become either (or both!) of the two–the bully or his favorite butt. Yes, I’m talking about how you were such a weirdo the meanest-looking kid always get to taste/spit on your lunch. And how you could never wait to get out of your hometown because no matter what valuable thing you do, even if you constructed the first solar-powered Edible Babies-Making Machine and potentially solve world hunger, you could never rid yourself of the whiffs of your traumatic days in the sandbox as “the weird kid” lifetimes ago.
The weirdo fascinates me.
Sure, the bully holds the interest of anyone drafting a dull character study; his nature being a by-product of a victimizing environment and how he really is just a sad creature looking for recognition and acceptance in this cruel, cruel world. You can have him if you want. I’d rather stick my nose in the weirdo’s life. Why?
Because the weirdo is a serious case of Bad-Ass.
Let me elaborate. In the Dark Ages (a.k.a. Childhood), the weirdo gets all the insults, the offenses, aggression, resentments, finger-pointing of the “real” victim–our dear bully. Through his actions, the bully implies blaming the weirdo for all the wrongs in the world, and more so, in his own life. So who really rules who here? Who makes who do anything just because of the fact that he exists? That’s right–it’s that wimpy weirdo, yo.
I DO NOT AGREE OF THE WIMP HAVING THIS POWER THOUGH.
Back in my Dark Ages, I am both bully and a butt. But I’m especially good in playing the bully. Like everyone (I don’t care if you think you were once a Disney princess, Snooki), I never got through childhood unscathed. We might not get the same amount, forms, and deepness of wounds but we’re all scarred nonetheless. I, for that matter, have memories dark enough I’d never wish them on any feeling creature, most of all an H.S. I was in a state of broken in which Humpty Dumpty’s shells would even feel sorry for me. I was Penicillin abused by an angry chemist with his mortar-‘n-pestle. I was Lady Gaga’s soul by the time she discovers she’s just as normal as anyone else.
But you see, I don’t treat my past as the wimpy weirdo who never belonged in the sandbox.
I don’t blame my horrible past encounters for all the wrongs in my life, for the mistakes I do, for why at times I find it so hard to be happy. It is just one (or some) of the wrongs, not the cause of the entire Black Colony. We could always choose to NOT live in the past, to edge away from the formulaic roads, and dig our own tunnels if there’s no other byway in sight. We could choose to NOT blame the past for the almost crippling bout of melancholia we get time and time again. Unless you do that, you will NEVER be happy.
For the past is like the impression we get after we first get our hearts broken; like the bewilderment we put up with after learning it’s the only thing that could function just as well, or even hellishly better, than its pre-smashed form.
It never goes away.