A Boy Like Me

Look at this fucker. Staring back at me, mocking me. This guy has been causing me nothing be grief for the past 6 weeks. You see, I happened to inform the psychologist Doctor Veronica Clarke about this small incident as a young boy where my father threw a chair at me. She seems to think that it has some major significance and will not let the issue go. Each week I have to deal with plethora of questions about how I feel about this young boy and how will I go about relating and empathising with him. Yet, I have no idea and so the process becomes ceaseless and frustrating. Yesterday, however, I finally snapped, I stopped giving her the responses that I thought I should be giving and instead told her that "I hate him! I don't really care how he feels!". This seems to be what she was after. Apparently my lack of empathy for my young self is indicative of my lack of empathy for my present day self. Due to this I, apparently, won't be able to break out of my funk until I learn to love myself at both my present and previous ages. For homework she set me the task of writing about this young boy, to see whether I can connect with him through the written word that I love so dear. So I've decided to write a letter to my young self. Try and open my heart to his plight and, in turn, open my heart to myself.

Hey little guy,

This is a letter from the future. It's the year 2008 and you're kind of fucked up. This psychologist, Doctor Veronica Clarke, has told me that I need to try and connect with you, so I've decided to write you a letter. Tell you how I feel about you, maybe offer you some handy hints on how to deal with the years ahead. It's kind of like in Back To The Future when Marty leaves that note for Doc Brown telling him that he was going to get shot by Libyan terrorists and to take precautions. Not that you are going to get shot by Libyan terrorists or anything, although one never knows. You should wear a bullet-proof vest at all times just in case.

So apparently I'm supposed to empathise with you, give you a hug or some shit. I don't know though, it sounds kind of gay. Gay, paedophilic and incestuous. Although if you think about it, with that logic a whack-off could be deemed incestuous. Although you probably don't even know what a whack-off is yet. I mean, you're a pretty smart kid, but sexual maturity ain't going to be one of your strong points. Ha ha, you ain't gonna know shit for ages. Sure, you'll pick up some stuff from the television and people talking, and this guy Stuart Osborne will show you some pictures in Year 10, but you won't kiss a girl until the night before your 26th birthday, and at this stage your chances of actually having sex are slim to non-existent. So, you know, better get yourself a hobby, or at least some decent hand cream.

I know this issue with girls probably doesn't seem like a big thing to you now, but trust me it will be. In fact, fairly soon you are going to be offered the choice of attending either the all-boys school Haileybury College or the co-educational Caulfield Grammar, you should probably choose the latter. I know it won't seem like the correct choice at the time, but attending an all-boys school, and with no access to social interaction with the opposite sex, leads to you romanticise and mythologise females to the point where you consider them above reproach and sacrosanct. And although this attitude gives you an honour and moral superiority, it also brings you tremendous loneliness and unhappiness.

So I guess it's the late 80s, maybe early 90s. You're into football. Maybe that's why I have trouble relating to you? I'm sorry to inform you but '86 is Fitzroy's last good year. Come the mid-90s the team is pressured out of the competition, and that event combined with The Sportos at this all-boys school deciding that you are a fag and launching an extensive bullying campaign effectively ends your interest in the sport. I know you had dreams of being a professional footballer. You weren't short of skill, that's for sure, but things just don't always turn out the way we dream. I'm sorry I have to break this to you, but it's for the best. You wouldn't have wanted to be part of that culture anyway. It's full of fucknuts. You're so much better than that. But don't be too sad, instead of playing football you develop an encyclopedic knowledge of all the hip and happening music trends and as a result become one of the coolest guys on the scene. Not a bad pay off.

So the real reason why I am writing to you is this: Any day now your bedroom door is going to be flung open and a chair will come hurtling towards your face. It's not going to be all that fun. Doctor Veronica Clarke seems to believe that this is a significant episode in our mental retardation. She has frequently and persistently asked me whether I feel sorry for you in regards to this incident. You're there, cowering under the covers, hoping they will somehow cushion the impact of the incoming chair. But, honestly, I think it's done you good. You now know that having a chair thrown at you isn't particularly pleasant and you would never throw a chair at someone yourself. It's called learning from experience. How else would you understand that that throwing chairs at people is wrong? Frankly, it probably played a significant role in you becoming the sensitive and thoughtful soul you are today. Which can only be seen as a good thing. So, sorry, little guy, but you're going to have to take one for the good of the team. I hope you understand.

Peace,
Big Grant.