Getting in touch with my inner brat

Getting in touch with my inner brat

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I’ve just come off Twitter where I have clicked on to Lady Gaga’s page and decided to follow her. At over 4.5 million followers she now has more fans on Twitter than Barack Obama (Lord GooGoo?). The decision to follow Lady Gaga may seem a little strange for a 57 year old man so let me explain.

My therapist has told me that I need to lighten up and get in touch with my inner child. Instead of being serious all the time and worrying about the future of the planet and the global economy I need to learn to play more. So I went off and bought the Lady Gaga CD after reading Mervyn Dendy’s Monday column on and have now learnt all the words. Then I asked myself what a well brought up inner child would do next and the obvious answer was to go onto Facebook and Twitter. I still haven’t mastered Facebook but I do Tweet frequently so I was comfortable following Lady Gaga on Twitter. I should point out that if I followed Lady Gaga in any other dimension I would get arrested for being an old perve.

But you can’t let a little thing like being accused of being an old perve get in the way of discovering your inner child can you? Anymore than you can take any notice of those signs at playgrounds that say adults aren’t allowed to use the bouncy castle. So when the security guys wander up and ask me what the hell I think am doing I will tell them I am discovering my inner child. That ought to convince the magistrate.

No….sorry… it’s a lot of nonsense isn’t it? My quest to discover my inner child may please my therapist but it isn’t working for me. Far from discovering a golden haired, Pears soap, fresh faced child who goes to bed when he’s told and sleeps through the night I’ve discovered a monster. Heaven knows, I’ve searched hard enough and asked my inner child if he’s quite sure we are related but he assures me that he is definitely Mini Me. Under deep hypnosis I first discovered my inner child pulling the wings off a masked weaver. “Oi…. you can’t do that” I yelled at the blighter. “Who the eff are you Grand-dad?” he responded.

I explained that I was his host physical body and that he was supposed to be my cute inner child. He just laughed and stuck a bit of old chewing gum behind his left ear. “For later” he said to me. I couldn’t believe my inner child could be all bad so I followed him around a bit to get to know him. He steals cigarettes, he listens to Slipknot, he dresses in black and refuses to wash. He is fascinated by Satanism and is determined to teach himself how to use a hypodermic needle as soon as possible. I asked him what he wanted to do when he became my inner adult and he told me not to ask dumb questions. Inner children stay inner children apparently which is why they don’t need any ambition or future plans. Which explains why my disgusting inner child has no qualms about being so offensive.

At my last meeting with my therapist I took my place on the couch and told her about my encounter with my inner child. I explained that I had felt like a disappointed father and she looked surprised. She asked me to describe him as best I could. So I did. You’ve just perfectly described my fifteen year old son she told me. So I think the relationship with my inner hoodlum is over but the good news I suppose is that he can’t steal my car keys and crash my car. Can he?

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