Now, it seemed to me a perfectly natural logical leap to assume that if one could move objects with one's mind via the invisible energy gushing from one's fingers, one would inevitably die from being too smart. This line of foolproof reasoning led me to sleep with my fingers and toes curled into tight fists to avoid accidentally opening doors or summoning objects from across the room with my massive brain, and then, when my fingers and toes grew tired of clenching themselves, to simply curl them a certain number of times, and then to assign good and bad values to certain numbers, and then to live the majority of my childhood as a slave to numbers, living in paralyzing fear of accidentally discovering I had telepathic powers.
Now, some say that Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is bound to happen in a person who carries the gene for Batshit Crazy - that all it takes is a trigger, and that there will always be a trigger of some kind, at some point. But you have to admit I got screwed. My trigger was John Travolta. This was America. This was the 90s. There was no hope.
The lesson here is tri-fold:
1. Don't read too many books or you'll die from being too smart.
2. Don't leave your sunglasses unattended around a person wearing a suit.
3. Never let your child see a John Travolta movie before they're old enough to fight it.
*Editor's Note: Robert Duvall looks exactly like my grandpa Glenn, and all the men on my dad's side of the family resemble Robert Duvall to varying degrees, including my dad, who looks like a cross between Robert Duvall and Shirley Maclaine. Heavy on the Maclaine.
