Adolescent mischief. |
It was 1978. They all wanted to know why I sat around drawing pictures of aliens and spaceships and reading R. Crumb comics instead of studying or making friends or joining the Cub Scouts or Little League. God forbid. That's when the psychologists got involved. But they were frustrated by my shrugs, my I don't knows, and my lack of eye contact. Psychiatrists were strongly suggested, along with Ritalin, private schools, boot camps, religious instruction, and extracurricular activities. My mother wanted to take away my drawing pad and my comic books. My father said if they took them away from me, then I'd really need a shrink. So they left me alone. And I started writing. Today I still sit around writing and drawing pictures and reading comics and some people still wonder why I spend so much time doing those things and think I need to see a shrink. Over the years I've learned to just smile and nod at these people and tell them how intuitive and insightful they are rather than arguing with them. Then I'll go home and write a story about them going to see a psychiatrist. And if they're lucky, I'll write a happy ending for them. If not, I'll just end it like I end most of the stories. Unresolved and with an ellipsis at the end...
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