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Knick-knacks locked up in the closet--useless plastic shit I\'ll never need. Mementos from my childhood. This is all I have left, a bunch of toys that I probably never even touched. I seem to remember a sand box and mud pies and how everything was prearranged and filtered out. I get it all out once in a while, because nostalgia is such a potent drug. It all comes down to this--a trite yearbook motto. Miniature suits and clip on neck ties--prepubescent phallic symbols. Action figures that move awkwardly, rely on holes in their feet and pegs on the ground to stand up straight. A whiff of the stench emanating from my peach fuzz armpits and they all fall down. Their magic has been sapped. Kryptonite. GI Joe, where\'s Barbie to comfort and console you and cook you a plastic meal in her pink Malibu kitchen. I wonder how many lessons I learned from video games that I wish I could forget. Plot is merely an algebraic formula where different cliché can be plugged into different sockets. The damage is irreparable. The mark has been made. I wish I could be more humble... maybe I would be if I got a cavity for eating all those sweets that appear (as if by magic) on the table. I want a pair of sparkly gloves and silver wand with a glass star at the tip. I sit in a circle of broken toys, depressed, and hope that the next fun treat item I buy has a big red delete key in plain view.