This is all Sam’s fault.
She’s the one that made me read “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened“, which basically is a memoir about someone whose childhood was almost as f$%&ed up as mine. But not quite.
For example, she talks about this one time when her crazy Dad set off an antique cannon to celebrate a holiday. OK, cool. That’s pretty weird, I’ll give you that.
AT LEAST YOU HAD A F&*%ING CANNON.
The time my Dad wanted to set off a cannon for his birthday, all we had was a cannonball. So Dad shoved a half pound of gunpowder and said cannonball into a four-foot section of PVC pipe, stuck one end of it in the side of a small hill, dropped a flaming pack of matches into the open end, and told us all to run like Hell. I have no idea what happened after that, because instinct took over and buy the time I heard the ‘BOOM’ I had barricaded myself indoors underneath the overturned sofa. Possibly locking the rest of the family outside on my way in. That’s OK, though. They were all assholes.
You want to know how I know they were all assholes? The whole reason we had a cannonball to start with was because my grandparents, who lived at the very top of a big giant hill (like, many acres of hill) thought it was hilarious to roll the cannonball down the hill and watch their faithful and long-suffering German Shepherd fetch it back again. A cannonball. With his teeth. It would take him an hour to wrestle the damn thing the quarter-mile back up to the house, because a cannonball weighs like 20 pounds and is made of metal. And do you know what they would do when he finally made it to the top? I mean, once they had stopped whooping with laughter? They would roll it right back down their mini-mountain.
Which is why we had a cannonball. Also a fairly good explanation of why I don’t talk to that side of the family all that much any more.