ME NO GOOD

When I was a kid, I hardly followed my parents’ orders.

Image a kid of his early toddler years looking provocatively to every creature in the world, cynical to every word humans say to him or speak on his behalf.

I was Gaara. I was a monster ten years ago.

I am the black sheep of the clan, the stars told me when I was sleeping ten years ago.

I can’t seem to figure out how my parents raised me–changed me to what I am right now.

There really are some people who does not want to agree on anything. Ads of ‘Catdog’ on Nickelodeon will tell that to you. It’s not merely of the promising differences that parents see on their child to keep them abiding the wants and the tantrums of their kids that’s why parents do what they want while kids conform otherwise. I don’t know. The theorem is rather confusing.

I remember, I was told not to poo on my diaper. I know that I should not. But I still did. I am very much aware of everything. Maybe I have mild symptoms of Lesch-Nyhan syndrome which i had avoided because I was cynical and negating and opposing for its existence in my genes. OMG, now I am a God.

I was told a hundred times not to point on anything when we stroll inside supermalls. But my parents end up half of their wallet swished to dimwits while I have the swells on my cheeks. Oh, and don’t forget the Miniature Horse collection by Davidson and Company.

My dad wanted me to eat vegetables. I want to eat cereals. Or eggs. Or meat. Or just anything except the vegetables. I threw up a glass of Eight o’ Clock because of talong, ampalaya and kalabasa and swollen my lips to punishment.

I wanted to be awake during afternoons. Superstitions forbade me. I force myself to keep my eyes naturally shut as possible. But err, I’m no cheapipay actor like LA Lopez who’s whiny pimpsqueak acting torched his queriness. But that’s a different story. Hands squished my eyeballs. Oh, I thought I was slicing onions.

I was a proud retard. I couldn’t read properly. I couldn’t count accurately. I couldn’t talk eloquently. I was a lefty.

My hands promise Caravaggio and Da Vinci but my brain foretells Patrick Starfish. If I am to count how many times my mom smacked broomsticks, belts, beltlocks, dusters, etc on my arms for not using them properly but to draw X-Men and Darna using red ballpens, I might give you prepaid loads 1000 each and will never expire. I am right-handed already. Not only that my abilities shifted from left to right, my photographic memories as well. Think about the location of Russia and North America the other way around which I fought with my gradeschool teacher and nearly forwarded yours truly to the Principal’s office.

I am bobo ever since. A mild manifestation of ADHD so to my own speaking.

I have a persona of childhood retribution. I commemorate the memories–sweet memories of my short-hand entries to Fate distorted by x and y.

Glad that I am far more different now.

Categories: Personalan

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