Thanksgiving Memories -- Thanksgiving post #4

Have I ever mentioned "the bad house?" Yes? Well, it was a mobile home. An old, old one. A small one, too. One not designed for four people. We lived there for five or six years, and hated every year of it. I hated almost every day, and at one point I was almost suicidal over it. I think so, at least. I was seven or something. It drove a seven-year-old to contemplate suicide.

My Mom recently told me that she hated it so much, she would talk daily to her coworkers about how much she hated it (the neighbor did this, the neighbor is sunbathing again and no matter how much he tries he's still a shockingly-white, muscleless man, the neighbor's car is parked in our driveway, our car was parked in his driveway and he peed his pants when he realized it, on and on). We may sound spoiled, but...I don't know. One reason it was so bad is that we have trouble keeping our house clean. A lot of people do, apparently. According to Pastor, messiness is a sign of brilliance. We can clean the house, but we lets it get messy agains, then cleans it again. So...I guess we's are only brilliant some of the time?

It's almost as if we prefer to not clean daily, but clean weekly. At any rate, it's fine in our current house, but that house was so small that if you went fifteen minutes without cleaning it, the pressure from all the garbage would threaten to launch the roof off of the house. That was mainly due to the horror of the construction. That place was so badly constructed...oh, I could go on.


Nevertheless, it was where I spent the majority of my childhood. Oh, the neighbors. It was a trailer park. It was in one of the worst places in Arizona economically, culturally, and neighborly. I remember "the kids in #6." Bad apples, the lot of them, their entire family, all inbred. That was probably the first time I heard a child being beaten.

Imagine this: your idiot friends aren't smart enough to buy video games (they rent them and...do stuff to them that they wouldn't do if they were their own; demoralize, use, abuse...other things...). You, on the other hand, are. Mostly because your brilliant Mom knows about Half.com, your favorite place to buy video games. Because you had a bad experience at a Game Crazy.

So, they rent a bad game. "Wah wah wallywoo!" they cry. "I know," they say collectively. "Let's bother Kev and see if he'll bring one of his games over! The jerk!"

I don't know, but my Mom must have counseled me against letting people borrow my stuff, because I was one idiotic kid. Looking back, I must have been the most idiotic human I have ever known. It wasn't "cute" idiocy. It was blaring, offensively idiotic, sorrowful idiocy. I would have let them chop my ears off if they'd asked. So I can only assume my Mommy told me not to. Thanks, Mom. Without you, I would have lost everything. I still have those games I would have lost, you know. Cruise'N World for N64. Not sure on spelling...and Goldeneye: 007.

Several times they had us over. Once, it was early afternoon, and they told me and my brother that if their Dad came home we would have to run out the back door (which didn't have stairs). My Brother has down syndrome, and he can't do stuff like that. I said something to the effect of "My good sirs, and madame, let me cordially state that I regret to inform you than I am unable to pursue your offer to have fellowship centering around a video game.

"My brother is disabled in that he has down syndrome and he cannot traverse the nonexistent stairs to escape what would surely become a harrowing scene, as your father entered the household to discover myself and my brother in the vicinity in violation of his desires set forth from before this point in time. Please accept my warmest well-wishes and apologies for me and my brothers' inability to attend your social gathering, which would likely have been very enjoyable for both attending parties."


Another time, I/we were over for some reason (I forget why), and, seemingly randomly, their Dad dragged one of the kids to the back of the home and started beating on him. He was screaming and crying. There were four of them, if I remember. The other three were giggling and/or stifling laughter. I forget if I was laughing or not. It would've been nervous laughter. The first time I remember hearing a child beaten. I...don't remember another time...uh...uhm...My Mom Never Beat Me Not Even Ever Once. SHE MADE ME TYPE THAT.



Why does this apply to Thanksgiving? Well, I spent five-to-six Thanksgiving's there. One time in-particular, I was sick, and I watched some of the Coneheads. That show is gross, if I remember correctly. They have pointy heads! How icky!
That was around the time that that one freak show was just out...3rd rock from the sun or whatnot. I hated that show with a passion. And I still do. And I still don't know why. That show came out in January 1996, so it was most likely 1996. Which was a fantastic year. Honestly, there's SO many things about 1996. It's like how 1999 was a good movie year. Or, so it seems to me.

My bed was 5 feet off the ground (to top of mattress) at that point (it had a storage area underneath it as a clubhouse of sorts), and...well, it was 2 feet from the kitchen. So I got to see some of dinner being made...I was sick, so I slipped in and out of consciousness, then I finally got the call.

"Kev, it's time to eat dinner. Wake up, son. We love you."

I dragged myself off of the bed. Sick on Thanksgiving. I forget what I was thankful for. Oh yeah, thankful that GOD DOESN'T INTERVENE, YOU MORONS!

If all goes well, I will be sick on this Thanksgiving, too. My nose is...how shall I say...hurting, right now, and it is three days to go. I need to eat a bunch of sugar and something immune-destroying today and tomorrow so the virus will gain a foothold, then I'll need to not rest too much on Wednesday. But I may just miserably destroy the virus, as my immune system does not enjoy trespassers.


What is immune destroying? Besides AIDS? Like, cereal? That's sugary, and has no nutrient value. OOH, COFFEE! I'll eat it with coffee instead of milk.

Sick bed, here I come! Three days to Thanksgiving!