In the corner of my designated living zone is a wooden box that most would describe as adequately proportioned. Inside of it are these toys that originated in my childhood but were more than likely manufactured long before I ever was. I'm sure I could use some help if you're interested in appraising them so I know which ones are old and which were newer I might even be OK with letting you have a few since I don't really need them. I don't really play with them that often. The thing is we just never got around to getting rid of them and despite the fact that I'm nearing thirty we just left them there. Now since we're done with that completely necessary exposition (which I just provided), let me dig into why I'm constructing this message. I'm not doing this of my own free will, but more out of the intoxicating fear that I'm experiencing in regards to a particular object in that box. This happened three days ago and nobody in my family has really listened to me about it so maybe a stranger on the internet will.
I was sifting through the old trinkets in the box, which I hadn't done in over a whole week. I had my robotic dinosaur that was roughly 1/20th of the box's volume, my power ranger mega ranger dude (or was it the negaranga dude?) along with the OG rangers, some small plastic humanoids that probably belonged to another playset, and a whole lot of other nonsense. I'm sorry I can't really remember all of them that well since I'm so afraid and stuff. I mean I was just going through it all, making sense of it as one does and of course something happens. So the one that became an anal pain for me was this pink robot pet trainer thing that wakes up when you move it. I'm confident that I can pinpoint its date as from the 90s and I think they were called furries or something like that. It's funny because they're robotic and you can easily tell that the fur is fake. And yet they're called furries. It's a really disappointing thing, really, but you have to consider that if they used dog fur or cat fur, it would be bad for customers who are allergic to it. The last thing you want as a toy manufacturer is a household protesting your business whether legally or following Gandhi's example and starving themselves in public. I wouldn't want to deal with that at all.
I might have to go through with those motions myself, though. Not as a toy manufacturer, I mean, but the whole large-scale or colonial revolt stuff. I guess in a way that's why I'm writing this as well. I'm spooked and I'm a highly unsatisfied customer. I just get to wondering if that makes me a hypocrite. I just confessed to how bad I'd feel being a toy manufacturing organization dealing with upset customers and yet I'm feeling inclined to act out myself. But I'm gonna ask you to be the judge of that, OK? I need you to put to me to rest on this matter. You already know what went down. I MOVED THE FURRIE. But it hadn't been active in 20 years, so it didn't do anything. I remember for the briefest of seconds I looked at it and felt pity. The poor thing was dead. Then I got over it and threw it over my shoulder and continued my process. Lots of cool stuff in that box man. I definitely am enthusiastic about learning more about it all so if you guys wanna come over and talk about it my mom will be OK with that. I have this orange hat that's also made out of fake fur and it's one of my favorites. There's also these neat inexplicable yellow railroad tracks that could snap very easily (and it looks like they have at one point). Oh, and you can't forget my set of Hotwheels matchbox cars, although they're separate from the toy chest itself. The more I think about it, the fonder I grow about this collection. You and I are gonna talk all night about it once you get here. I'll even let you have some of my toys since you're a guest.
So after only a couple hours of appreciating those antiques, I felt fulfilled enough to go to bed. I shut the box with utmost care and got up. It took a second for my knees to function since I was kneeling for quite awhile. Once I shook the life back into them, I looked at the clock and realized it was three in the morning. I had been at it all day this time. That never happened before since I was twenty-three. I remember feeling a little disgusted with myself for it since I forgot to make sure my mom got her pills. Luckily I got over it and I was prepared to settle in for another deep sleep. That's when I noticed that the furrie was still facedown on the blue area rug where I threw it. I picked it up to give it one last run down, but unbeknownst to it, I wouldn't be able to return it to the box yet. Once the box is shut, it stays shut until the next round begins, even if its a week later. That's one of my rules. I guess I should mention that before we mix it up. When you come over I'll let you know the rules. Some of the more boring ones I got from mom, but I'll be in trouble if we don't obey them. It's no big deal, really. This one was personal though, so I just gently placed the furrie back on the floor where it belonged. I was too worn out to feel empathy.
So I turned off the lamp and burrowed into my spiderman blankets, shaking as I got comfortable, when out of the blue... "DADDA! RUB BACK, PLEASE!"
I shot up like a bullet bill from Nintendo's Super Mario Brothers. What I mean by that clever metaphor is that I was terrified. Anyone would react in the same way, so please don't judge me. It was dark and there was sudden noise. Worst of all, that was neither my mother nor any of the family members who I was acquainted with. There was a stranger in my house and I didn't invite them in. That completely goes against the one rule from mom that I agree with: no unauthorized personnel in the house! So I shoved the blankets to the side, whipped my skinny legs to the side and stood. I adopted a powerful fighting stance and swung my fists into the shadows. I didn't hit anything. Instead, I ended up getting dizzy from the exertion and fell back onto the bed.
"HUNGRY!"
There it was again! This time I preferred a more careful approach to the enemy. Apparently, there was no immediate threat and so it was fit to play my cards this way. I turned on my lamp to scout the room, which confirmed my suspicions that were was nothing there. This was the worst case scenario. It was all in my head. I hadn't been hearing voices since I was twenty-three years old, but now there it was again. This voice called itself "Reality Black" and you could tell regardless of the high pitched and automated sound that it was a nigger. All of the ghetto things it whispered to me were coming back now and I wasn't nearly ready for it. I told myself and my therapist that I wouldn't join their gang. I had to keep telling myself that I wasn't a dirty street crab. I was a civilized boy and my true passion was out there. I just had to find it ... But every time I tried to find it, Reality Black tried to recruit me into their gang. I don't wanna transport the cocaine! I don't wanna fight the street lobsters! I wanna be a real boy and contribute to the world in a meaningful way. The toys are the way. They've been like a solace to me in this battle of mine. They would always fight for me, see.
I had already shut the box and I couldn't violate the ritual and reopen it. That would be even more cataclysmic. I was beyond petrified. It was the most hyper-realistic fear I've ever had to endure ever since I was twenty-three. For these reasons I couldn't bring myself to