Dear Livid Readers,
Childhood is a state of mind, a state of being, and indubitably not the state of Montana. Some of us may have been children in the past, while others, such as Stephen Miller, were secreted from a convulsing, oozing pustule as fully-clothed, quivering men. The two of us are admittedly of the former group, and today, we gaze back upon our years of bare genitalia with deep fondness. The fleeting tastes of summer dance upon our tongues, creating a delightful harmony of ice pops, barbecue, and our fathers’ virulent cigar breaths. We recall the bliss accompanying the season’s first snowfall, and the disappointment when the blade of our sled detached, impaling Dylan Weber. But indeed, age has granted us perspective. We have regrets, some of which we will now convey to you in the hopes that you, captive reader, can learn from our wisdom. Thus, in hindsight, we wish that:
We had not framed our Tamagotchi as an accessory to a triple homicide so as to relieve ourselves of the responsibilities of parenthood.
We had learned how to Dougie, and thus finally impressed Rebecca Diorne.
We didn’t burn that fire ant with a magnifying glass in third grade.
We didn’t burn that opossum with a magnifying glass in fifth grade.
Our bedroom walls were not adorned with kissed posters of Stone Phillips.
We didn’t burn Mr. Garcia with a soldering iron in eighth grade.
We wasted our tenth birthday wish on world peace instead of an iPod Nano.
We shoplifted the sexiest Cabbage Patch Kid we could find at Toys ‘R Us instead of just asking our father for access to his Brazzers account.
We hadn’t spent an hour and a half in 2010 watching Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga’Hoole.
We more actively protested the anti-Semitism inherent in the gym class game “Steal the Bacon.”
We attended that Simple Plan concert when we had the chance.
Peace, Love, and Radical Podiatry,