One of my earliest memories was being told I shouldn’t be excited about snack time. This was news to my bright, unmarred concept of identity. What self-respecting kid wasn’t thrilled by the very hint that snack time loomed? Who among our tiny, nomadic clans clawing for a turn on the sole motorized plastic car didn’t swiftly abandon their prize several minutes shy of the lunch bell? But ‘didn’t’ and ‘shouldn’t’ were two very different things, and my first lesson in Freud’s psychic apparatus was swiftly remedied. I was told I “didn’t really need” snack time like the other kids did.
That was in preschool.
While I didn’t understand the sentiment back then (I was always recklessly obstinate when it came to school authority—fuck you, I’m eating string cheese), I was well-versed in the concept by first grade. I was the dreaded monster all those old bedtime stories told you about: a…
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