my name is coty. i like rocks. i have a pirate boat collection.
It was the summer I turned three. I remember the sunny June morning that my father was outside mowing the front lawn. My family had celebrated my birthday just a week before and I was excited to be growing up. I wanted to help my father out with the chores, you know, be fathers pride and joy, the apple of his eye. I wanted him to know me as more than the kid who peed off of his front porch each morning, I wanted to show him that I could start taking on some of responsibilities around the house.
I decided that I was going to finish mowing the lawn for him. That would prove that I am a capable young chap. I approached him as he was emptying the grass clippings from the bag. The sound of the mower engine was still droning away as I approached, yelling over the sound I asked him if I could recommence mowing where he had left off. He promptly declined my offer. I asked him again to allow me to help him, another quick turn down. After the second dismissal I questioned his judgment. My father did not like his decisions to be second-guessed! He became angry and quickly pointed out the fact that I "was only three" and that I was not yet old enough to handle machinery of that caliber.
I was heart broken. My pride and esteem had been trodden in one quick instance. No longer was I three years old! No, I was only three years old. My feelings of inadequacy quickly changed to rage. I filled with ire; my diminutive three-year-old body was overcome with abhorrence. I released these feelings with a quick and nimble karate kick to my father’s new lawn mower. Surely a well-placed dent in his bright new cherry red mower would teach him a lesson. Unfortunately at that time my karate skills weren’t as refined as they are now. My foot slipped below the undercarriage of the mower. Just as quickly as the anger came, it had receded. The power of the rotating blade cleanly sliced the tip of my favorite pinky toe. My feelings of inadequacy returned full force. I was no longer a stalwartly young man; I was a stubby ninja toed three year old. Cut down in my prime I was destined to lead a life of failure.
Nineteen years three months one week and six days later:
A large suite on the seventeenth floor of The Little America, this is where I had to relive the moments of that fateful day many years ago. It was the night of my wedding to my german mining babe, I remember it clearly, my beautiful bride began to remove my socks as I lay on my back upon the queen-sized bed. I was only slightly nervous; I hadn’t thought of the small scar on my favorite pinky toe since I was a child, but as my new wife removed my right sock I heard her gasp. Instantly the memories were forced back into my head, the feelings of inadequacy took hold once again filling my very being. There I was, on my wedding night, reliving the day my life had began its downward spiral. I was so distressed that it affected my breathing, my thoughts, my soul, and my little buddy...
I was impotent. I have been ever since.
Go ahead, Cornelius. You can cry.
