Around the age of, let's say, 7 or 8 or so, I developed this sense that inanimate objects had feelings. Now, I realize that most kids develop attachments to their toys, stuffed animals, what have you. Little Amy, however, took this a few steps beyond what is healthy.
I think it began with Spyri.
Perhaps it was because I was an only child with few companions, and had learned to create imaginary friends very early on in childhood. At any rate, there was a period of time that I always needed to carry a little "friend" around with me, most everywhere I went.
Spyri was just one of my many "friends": a little spiral seashell that I had glued little googly eyes to, and to which I had developed a preternatural attachment. One day, choked with the gut-wrenching loneliness that can only be felt by dorky children, I decided that Spyri was going to accompany me to school.
That day, the inevitable happened: I lost Spyri. I realized it in the cafeteria, just as lunch period was ending. Believing Spyri to actually be a living friend, one who I loved dearly, I pitched a complete hissy fit in front of everyone (why the other kids didn't like me was completely unfathomable), leading to the school janitor digging through both giant trash cans filled with milk and government-issued cheese and such.
Spyri was not found.
I was so distraught that my mom had to come pick me up from school early. We went grocery shopping. I remember very distinctly that when Pearl Jam's "Daughter" came on the radio, I had to fight the tears back. The line, "the picture kept will remind me" made me remember that Spyri was gone, and all I had left was this shitty little picture I drew of her in art class. (THIS IS WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED)
From that point on, I was extra special careful never to let my extra special friends out of my sight. Including the time I took a dorky Mario doll to an all-girl sleepover, but that's neither here nor there.
And then there was the Frosted Flakes incident.
My mom and I were in Market Basket one Saturday morning, doing the week's grocery shopping. We always drove either 20-30 minutes out of our way, to Haverhill or Rowley, to go to the Market Basket for groceries. The joys of growing up poor!
Right. So there we were, in the cereal aisle, at my favorite part of the trip: getting to pick out a delicious breakfast treat. I had my heart set on Fruity Pebbles. Goddammit, I loved Fruity Fucking Pebbles. Didn't matter that they got all soggy and gross after about 20 seconds in milk, but even that artificially-colored sugar slime was like taking a bite out of heaven itself.
My mom was also looking at cereals. "Hey, how about some Frosted Flakes?" she suggested to me.
"Frosted Flakes??!!" I replied. No fucking way I was going to eat Frosted Fucks. It was a one-way train to Pebble-Town that day. I grabbed the box and threw it into the cart with glee.
Later on in the shopping adventure, however, I started to think about that incident. And, honest to fucking god, I thought that I had hurt the Frosted Flakes' feelings by rebuffing them the way I did. So what did I do? I took my coveted Fruity Pebbles back to the cereal aisle, put them on the shelf, and grabbed a big-ass box of Frosted Flakes.
Seeing Tony The Tiger's face still kind of fills me with guilt. No wonder I'm such a mess.
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