I just wanted to finally forgive you for, well, being born.
Wait! Come back! Let me explain!
See, I had it pretty good when I was a kid. I was the very proud owner of a red plastic suitcase filled with Legos. In fact, my suitcase o’ Legos was THE go-to toy when people (not just children!) came over to the house. Aunts, uncles, family friends, cousins… I built (built! get it? haha! I am clever!) many fond memories around those Legos. Primo bonding time occurred when I would innocently bring a hunk of Legos to an adult and sweetly ask him to take it apart for me (why did everything always get stuck on that damn flat green piece?). And don’t get me started on the Lego people. Oh, how I loved playing with the Lego people.
And then came you. Somewhere between your birth and your second birthday, the suitcase disappeared. By that point, I was distracted from my Lego phase (you yourself were a pretty fascinating, albeit loud, addition to the household), but I clearly remember the day when I went to the cabinet in the laundry room looking for that damn suitcase only to be told by Mom that she “got rid of them” because “your brother might choke on them.”
You might choke? Like hell I’d let you get THAT close to them!
Oh, it was on.
While my resentment did not, actually, last for long (though I admit it has since been unearthed numerous times for dramatic effect) I thought that it might be nice to formally forgive you. You probably never even saw the Legos, had no idea they existed…
…or did you, you little fucker? Did you try to play with them behind my back and almost choke? Is THAT what the old woman was talking about? Huh?
…making my ill will ill-placed.
So for that: I’m sorry, baby brother.
But for the record, the Cabbage Patch Doll incident is still fresh in my mind.