My automatic failure mechanism
I'm honestly starting to feel sorry for my readers at this point. It's probably not much fun looking in on someone's life when all they see is a repository for bad shit. However, if you think reading this is a downer, try living my life. This is part three of four examining my childhood. I promise the fourth post will end this retrospective on a high note. The butterfly on the windowsill makes for a pretty picture but is trapped and will die unless someone lets him out. No, this is not a post on monarch mind control programming (though there are eerie similarities to how I was raised), but there's plenty of information out there if you'd like to deviate from this sadness to another sort of sadness. No, the butterfly is symbolic. It is a symbol of my childhood. You see, there was an actual butterfly. When we still lived in the town I was born in, I tooled around on my bike quite a bit. It was freedom from the adult world where I was tethered to places...