You know what, mom?
I just remembered something, and I am pissed.
Every Christmas you would buy me a Holiday Barbie.
Which was so super fun, because you totally wouldn’t let me open them or interact with them in any fucking way because, one day, they would be worth a bajillion dollars.
Which is like, the most perfect gift, ever…for a seven year old.
Barbies I can’t fucking touch.
For six years, you got me these Barbies.
But it was worth it, because I was going to buy a limo with a television in the back, a pink pocket rocker, and possibly one of those giant pianos from the movie Big.
And then, years passed, and I wanted to start letting boys feel me up in the comfort of my own room, so I packed them away, because you can’t get fingered by boys when there are Barbies next to your bed.
I forgot about them.
Plus, dad put them up in the attic, and I won’t go up there because it’s haunted and smells like dead guy.
But then, yesterday, I was dicking around on ebay looking for something with a Jesus fish on it for my weirdo evangelist cousin’s birthday, and I saw this…
I have, like, six of those fuckers!
So, when I tell you, mom, that I want to list them up on ebay so I can invest the money and then buy either alpacas or one of those diamond bras from Victoria Secret (those come in DDD, right?), and you are all, who knows if we even kept those things…
Of course I am gonna flip out.
Because I was a kid, and I could have spent my Christmas’ playing with fun shit like Popples or Hot Looks Dolls.
Not boxes of crap I was never allowed to touch.
What good are Barbies if you can’t take their clothes off and make them have sex with NKOTB dolls?
The answer is not good, mom.
Not good at all.