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So maybe I’ve been a little too harsh on my inner child the first time I ran into him. It is, after all, his first appearance on the internets, so he must be nervous and all. So to make up for the trauma I caused him, I’m giving him some time to talk to me in this blog.
Isn’t he such a peach?
It’ll probably do wonders for my recent emoness and possibly cure me of my schizophrenic tendencies. I’m looking forward to the day where I don’t have to sing “My Humps” (yeah, the most intelligent song EVAR) in funerals mainly because I think it’s damn funny and it creeps the hell out of the deceased’s relatives.
So without further adieu, here’s my inner child and me… debating. About… stuff.
ME: So ladies and gents, here’s my Inner Child, who is awesome and all. What do I call you by the way?
INNER CHILD: Larry.
INNER CHILD: You got a problem with that, buddy?
INNER CHILD: Good.
ME: Geez, somebody’s touchy today–
INNER CHILD: How would you feel if you didn’t get to buy cotton candy for today? You and your “Cotton candy can wait, we have to be on the blog ASAP”. You and your immature blog obsessions.
ME: But I said we can buy cotton candy later… um… Larry.
INNER CHILD: So why am I on this stupid blog anyway?
ME: Well, you first do as I do–
INNER CHILD: Make a fool out of myself and make everyone remotely associated with me hate my entire existence?
ME: I was actually thinking along the lines of rambling all you can in this blog and eventually becoming rich and famous. Like me.
INNER CHILD: Yeah, you’re rich and famous. And I’m the devil’s spawn.
ME: Come to think of it, you do resemble a certain son of the dev–
INNER CHILD: This blogging thing sucks.
ME: Hey! Not cool!
INNER CHILD: No, really, this sucks. It’s boring me. It’s not as cool as cotton candy.
ME: Just ride along. Please.
INNER CHILD: So this is what you do in your spare time? Eat tuna sandwiches, drink decaf instant coffee, and post obscene jokes on the internet?
ME: Yeah. But I call it… “blogging”
INNER CHILD: Hence, blogging sucks sweaty balls. You, and your entire existence, is crap.
ME: Guess what? You’ll grow up to be… me.
INNER CHILD: A fact that depresses me from time to time.
INNER CHILD: And what’s with the hair? You need a frigging haircut.
ME: What? This is what you call style, kiddo.
INNER CHILD: F4 called. They want their hairdo back.
ME: That’s it. No cotton candy for you.
INNER CHILD: I don’t frigging care. Oh by the way, Ade’s readers, did you know Ade here has an extensive porn collec–
ME: Ok, people, time to move on. Nothing to see here. This has been edition number one of “Inner Child Therapy”, and–
INNER CHILD: Let go of me! Let go! Leggo!
ME: And people, don’t be alarmed if I’m stuffing this handkerchief into the mouth of this kid. This is my inner child, noisy tactless and all, so I suppose I’m not breaking any child abuse laws–
INNER CHILD: Let go of me you fatso!
ME: And also, don’t be surprised if I’m slapping this kid silly, remember, he’s part of my consciousness. He’s actually not a real physical being. So it’s okay to beat the pulp out of this kid–
INNER CHILD: FATSO! FATSO! FATSO! FATSO!
INNER CHILD: At least I don’t look like John Candy.
ME: Oh god, I hate you.
So this edition of Inner Child Therapy didn’t go quite as planned, I suppose. I promise to bring elephant tranquilizers the next time.
So, guys, are you in touch with your inner child? Tell me more about it by leaving a comment or two.