My grandmother’s hair was black and grey. She often made silly faces. These faces, combined with her quirky, eccentric behavior, made people laugh. She often would purse her lips, bulge out her eyes, then suck in her cheeks. She looked like an old fish. Then she might chase Butchie, her rotund lover, her dog. Around the kitchen they would go, with Grandma saying things over and over like, “Where is my ootie bootie boodums, my ootie bootie boodums.”
I was eating my second packet of Pop Tarts, double chocolate with sprinkles. I was happy. She had gotten them for me. I was her rotund baby boy.
I could have beat Trump. I could have been somebody.
The biggest reason why I haven’t is, I suffer from the insidious psychological disease: small penis syndrome.
In high school I showered with other young men who had wieners the size of Kielbasa sausages. My member before puberty was the size of a small Vienna sausage, and after puberty: a large Vienna sausage. I was ridiculed, snapped in the groin many times with rolled up towels and teased mercilessly. I took to wearing my underwear in the showers. Even the cheerleaders called me shorty.
Desperate after my tiger left me, I asked out a woman who I hoped had loose morals. We now have reached the one year mark. I have some love for her. When she gets mad and yells, her face looks like a raging gorilla, much like mine. My horrible health has helped to make me a very insecure man. I’m holding on to her like a life saver. When she is not angry she can be an angel.
You might yell “eat shit and shut the hell up!” after a year of trying hard to make her care for you when you know she doesn’t like you. You might be thinking she will have a nasty backlash.
You might walk the dogs, not to the usual closest grass patch to sniff and poop then back in the house, but on the longest walk ever, not wanting to stop an hour later, the dogs yanking you to the back door.
These are two examples of how I and many others suffer from mania in the middle of winter. When spring comes, this surge of energy can cause your rise or your fall. Know what it can do and be careful.
Even as a small boy I knew to buckle up when riding with Grandma Ruth. I liked to ride in the back and her massively fat dog, Butchie, sat up front. Ruth Weisburger could not see over the dash of her Ford Granada. I often saw her hit the brakes and Butchie’s head would ram into the glove box. Once when we were dropping off her cook, a black man called Old John–he sat in the back with me–she sideswiped three parked cars.
She gave up her freedom with little fuss after that. What a trooper! This saved lives, at least Butchie’s life. I miss her dearly.