I know, I know. I'm supposed to be afraid of clowns, a fear stemming from some traumatic childhood experience with them. Maybe if my parents had hired some coked-up, desperate, middle-aged man to dress up as a clown for my birthday, or let me watch Stephen King's "It," or took me to a circus where one got all up in my face, I would be. Or maybe I'd just resent my parents for traumatic experiences which make way funnier stories than the kind I resent them for now. Either way, not only am I not afraid of clowns, but my oldest, best, most steadfast and dependable friend is a clown.
I'm not talking about some imaginary friend--seriously, I am 21 years old--but a plush toy clown given to me by my grandmother's neighbor, Mrs. Wildblood, for my first birthday. Any why, of all of the dozens of stuffed animals--most less bizarre and off-putting than clowns--did I choose him to hold onto from that day onwards? Who really knows, but I like to think I was already a rebel at that age. ("Wait, I'm supposed to be scared of clowns? Fuck that, I'm gonna have a clown as a best friend!"). Whatever the reason, Mr. Clowny-clown-clown-clown-clown (my dad named him, no joke) remains the one connection to my childhood that I hold onto, and embarrass myself with by insisting that he accompany me wherever I travel or transplant to. As a result, his passport (if he had one) would be more impressive than most Americans'--Canada, Russia, Hungary, and soon Slovakia, Czech Republic, Poland, and Turkey. Not to mention he's accompanied me on trips to Disney World, to the Jersey Shore, all over New England, and in my move from Burlington to Montreal to Seattle area. He's quite well-traveled for a children's toy with no ability to move on his own.
Since he's been the only constant in my life for as long as I can remember, and since I still take him with me when I travel so I can sleep with him at night (Go ahead. Say something. I dare you.), there was no way I couldn't include him in this blog.
No comments:
Post a Comment