My Own Pet Two-Year-Old

I’ve been going through some of the older things that I’ve written and came across this little gem:

I realized something the other day:
I’m a fake.
The person that everyone else in the entire world knows as “me” is a
lying, deceitful, two-faced imposter.
See, they all think that I’m an adult.
Calm, composed, courageous, et cetera.
I know this because they’ve told me so
(on multiple occasions).
I wonder what they’d think if they knew that the guy pulling all my strings
is a crying, frightened, whiny two-year old that got
strapped into a roller coaster called life
right before someone smirked
and hit the “Go!” button.

Fortunately, nobody else knows he exists. That’s because I
tackled him one day
tied up his arms and legs real tight
crammed cotton in his mouth
gagged him
and stuffed him in a tiny two-year-old-sized box.
I padlocked the box
and shoved it into the deepest, darkest corner I could find
so that no one else could hear him scream.
Then I hid the key in a place where no one would ever find it.

The only problem with this almost perfect plan is that
the more I try to make the stupid little brat shut up the
louder he screams.

So now I go through life with a three-cent smile plastered on my face,
like I’m telling people,
“This roller coaster’s so much fun! I’m not scared a bit.
That roller coaster over there looks
scarier. Sure glad I’m not on that one! What?
What are you talking about?
Screaming? I don’t hear any screaming. I think you’re making that up.
Pay no attention to the tied-up two-year-old behind the curtain!”

But I realized something else the other day too:
Everyone else is just as much a of a fake as I am. They all have their
own pet two-year-olds that they’ve locked up in boxes and ignored.
I guess I can’t figure out if that makes me feel better
or worse.

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