I was a peculiar child, as evidenced by the musings I shared with my kindergarten teachers when they asked me how I felt about giants. What kind of giant would I be? A “Big Friendly Giant?” A benevolent beast among men?
Not…exactly. It seems I equated power with terror, not warmth, and I also possessed an odd fascination with my would-be physical attributes.
It’s hard to imagine my kindergarten teachers patiently transcribing these words:
If I were a giant, I’d stomp on buildings to be a mean giant and capture people to eat. I’d put honey on them to eat them with pork chops. I’d spank people just because I was a mean giant. I’d sleep in oak trees and wear deer meat clothes. I’d have long hair horns and my skin would be black and have lots of freckles. I’d hit myself on the head for fun and I wouldn’t have any friends. I’d just be a mess.
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