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.
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