While brainstorming material for this blog, a few friends of mine suggested that I share some stories from my childhood. It’s not that I necessarily had that exciting of a childhood – it was a pretty by-the-numbers middle-class American standard – but for some reason, my identity as a child was that of a bipolar crybaby badass.

Yes, yes, all kids are swirling masses of pure chaos, but I had a deep-seated disturbance in my soul beyond my years (this does not imply I had any sense of wisdom or general understanding of the world, however). My parents always seemed to be looking for some sort of biological explanation – across my childhood I was hypothesized as deaf, mentally challenged, physically impaired, and of having a speech impediment.

And on more than one occasion, my mom found elementary school me sobbing my eyes out in my unlit room because there was “so much suffering in the world.” I’d be like borderline suicidal, Trent Reznor-ing myself into numbness, but it’d always be over the most mundane shit.

On the flip side, I also feel like I was an arbiter for the suffering of all the other kids around me. For some reason, I had a strangely powerful influence on about nine or ten kids around me. I can distinctly remember one recess where I simply stated that I was not in the mood to walk that day, so one of my friends crawled on all fours and I rode him across the playground for the remainder of the afternoon. Max Pulante, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, you have very strong shoulders.

So over the next few weeks I’m going to be uploading brief recollections of my bizarre and somewhat disturbing earlier days. I hope you guys can understand and relate to them, and, if you do, please consult your nearest developmental psychologist as soon as possible.