My older sister used to beat the shit out of me. I admit it. I remember she used to chase me around the house in circles until the inevitable occurred-she overtook me. No amount of serpentine juke moves could shake her resolve, and I ended up eating grass and admitting, under water-boarded conditions, I may add, that she was the “best” and I was the “worst.” As a side note, she was tall and strong way beyond her age.
What really chaps my ass is, that now that I’ve eclipsed her in size, it’s deemed unacceptable for me to force feed her handfuls of freshly uprooted grass. Can you imagine me now chasing her around the house at Christmas? Ending most likely with a serious white washing and a couple of thong wedgies. You better beleive all this is attributed to repressed memories of what I vividly compare to Korean POW torture.
I remember I would pull her hair or throw something at her and the whole escapade would start again. My father would play the ultimate wizard behind the curtain, provoking her to chase me down in the ritual manner that terrorized my early years. It sounds sick and I have no qualms that my dad ultimately enjoyed watching me run for my life, simultaneously screaming like a girl, as they both used to phrase it, because of the abnormal behavior I displayed at a young age that most easily would be categorized as rambunctious. Euphemisms aside, this story still makes me smile and laugh to myself. No apologies, I Don’t Think Before I Speak
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