This Is So Retarded

I walked to elementary school. No bus for me. Along my route was a gray, dilapidated mansion surrounded by converted apartment buildings.

We knew what lived in the mansion, but we never uttered the word.

As we approached this decrepit remanent of my town's glory days, we sprinted down the sidewalk, hoping to avoid what was inside.

And for years, we managed to do so. We patted ourselves on the back when we got past the danger zone.

Then I turned nine. I was too big for my britches. I thought my shit didn't stink. I embodied every youthful clichι.

I no longer ran by the mansion, averting my eyes, afraid that what was inside would bore through my soul if I caught its gaze.

I gingerly strolled by drinking an iced tea Ssip. I gazed at the mansion, silently daring what was inside to drag itself into the light of day. I could face it. I was tough. I was nine.

Two weeks after I stopped being afraid of what was inside, I once again neared the edge of the danger zone. My chest swelled with pride at the courage I displayed.

And then I heard it. Primal grunting and heavy footsteps. I froze. My friends, who had continued their pattern of dashing past the mansion, heard it, too. They turned back, and their eyes grew with terror.

Grunt. Step. Grunt. Step. Grunt. Step. Closer and closer. I tightly shut my eyes. I wanted it to go away. I just wanted it to go away. If I could close my eyes tight enough, maybe it would.

My friends screamed, "Run! Run! Run!" I was still frozen.

Grunt. Step. Grunt. Step. Grunt. Step. I could feel its presence bearing down on me.

Dendrites. Neurotransmitters. Synapses. They all failed me. Move, I kept telling myself. JUST FUCKING MOVE! Left foot. Right foot. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

I stood there with mouth agape, feet stuck to the concrete and eyes bulging. What a sight I must have been.

I saw my friends jump up and down in slow motion, but in my state of shock, I couldn't remember why they were bouncing like pogo sticks. Were we playing a game?

Their lips moved but I couldn't hear what they were saying. It wouldn't have mattered. I wouldn't have comprehended the words.

My friends saw it before I felt it. It -- what had been hiding inside the house for so many years -- touched my shoulder. I jumped.

I was drifting out of the haze.

I tu ... tu ... turned to see what had a deathgrip on my shoulder.

"Hi, my name is Mikey. Do you want to play?"

Mikey was a 20-something retard wearing the stereotypically ill-fitting clothes that the Salvation Army or Goodwill or Jesus donates to the mentally challenged.

Aside from the velcro sneakers and used clothing, he wore a huge grin on his face. Spittle formed in the corner of his mouth. His hand was still . . . STILL! . . . on my shoulder.

My senses returned in full. I dropped my Ssip. I got out from Mikey's grip. And I ran. I ran like never before and never since.

As I tore way from the scene, I heard someone calling, "Mikey! Mikey! Stop bothering the young girl! You know what happened last time..."

And that's why I'm psycho.

A nine-year-old being accosted by a beefy retard wanting to play is beyond traumatic. But what scarred me was walking by that mansion for another two years, knowing that Mikey and his brethren were lurking and waiting to finish what they had started.

My parents sent me to therapy for years. I swallowed psychotropics like candy. I smoked cigarettes to calm my nerves. I smoked weed to forget the pain, but it just made me forget that I had a quiz every Thursday in Advanced Spanish. I dropped acid in the hopes I could turn it into a happily surreal experience.

Nothing worked. Nothing. So here I am. Psycho, and not providing any entertainment.

It hurts, mommy. It hurts.

Providing jack-off material for white misogynists since 1997.

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