I used to be a normal-type guy, then I got hooked on phonics.
I’ve been in and out of word rehab for a good part of my life.
The first time I knew I was in trouble was when I insisted we, us people, all have appendable thumbs.
That was followed by my brother, Ron, and I sneaking out of my parents’ house one night to make up words. We hid behind an old shed and let the words tumble — at times — out of mouths until we worked with them enough they flowed like butter on buiscquitiness pancakes.
We came up with “obdurant” and “ignoracity.” Those were our gateway words.
We used those words in sentences.
While having conversations.
Without cracking a smile or blinking an eye.
And then we made up more words, sometimes venturing into the even darker world of phrases.
We were young and brash.
And then came the first word rehab clinic.
“She sells sea shells by the sea shore,” became a mantra.
At night I wake up sobbing because I don’t know who “she” is and why is selling sea shells on the sea shore when sea shells are probably lying around and easy to pick up.
And is she selling sea shells because she needs an operation? To save a sibling from going to prison? Is she trying to raise money for orphans and widows?
It makes my mind all gibberdedocked and makes my brainules hurt.
My brother stayed on the straight and narrow.
“Why do you make up words?” my counselor asked me.
I was afraid to admit the truth, so I made up a story about being taken hostage by scallywanderers who work for absoundidly rich people who live in an aristacity and who wanted to raise me and train me to fight in bare knuckle boxing matches.
I was young and brash.
“Do you not know the proper words to use?” I was asked.
I was afraid to admit the truth so I made up another story about a small lad whose parents misplaced him while shopping at a local groceritum — taking home a stuffed animal that looked almost exactly like him except it didn’t talk as much — and leaving him to fend for myself on streets of the big city of Los Amerimegalopolis.
Which is located somewhere in the Midwest.
“Are you seeking attention?” I was asked
I was afraid to admit the truth so I made up yet another story about fighting the Gamermans in Viennanam and watching all of my friends suffer horrifilictously from unchecked cases of toe fungus. How I was left scarred and, eventually, slinkered down to the depths of being hooked on phonics.
“You know you’re not really hooked on phonics. It’s all in your head, right?” I was asked.
I was afraid to admit the truth, so I made up another story about a young man trying to make his way in the world only to be slapped around by prenacious and less than hygenial persons who thought they were better than him. Then I added on the bit about fighting Gamermans in Viennanam.
Eventually, you have to tie your stories together or people will catch on that you’re making them up.
If you tie all four of those examples together you might think I’ve led a pretty exciting existanial life.
You wouldn’t be far off.
But I’ve been off the stuff for a while now.
I, too, can look back at that time and have a chuckalichy at myself.