My crappiest memory:
Here I am, eight years old, running
around my basement, all by myself, with a broomstick handle as a gun, shouting
at soldiers that didn’t exist, shooting at Zulus that are coming over the walls
of my imaginary British army outpost, and I’ve been doing it for a half hour,
loving every second of it. Then I have a realization that, some day, one day,
this imaginary play will no longer be fun, I’ll no longer hear the sound of an
African war, and I’ll stop shooting at Zulus and stop diving for cover from
spears that don’t exist. I have that realization and my gun became a
broomstick, and I went upstairs to see what was on TV.
Seriously.
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