The Great XMAS Blogroll Induction Extravaganza – Day 9.
Lyssa and I go back, way back: I was not even a one-month old blogger when I wrote my first comment on her blog… She knew L’Éric before Le Clown was even created. We weren’t super tight… not as tight as a kitten’s anus anyway. We were more like Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie: frenemies. Time passed, and Le Clown became an international blogging superstar. That is when Lyssa made her first appearance on my blog, begging to be on my blogroll. The spotlight was on Paris, and Nicole was craving some of that warm and fuzzy limelight. Well today is your day, Lyssa. Enjoy your 15 minutes of fame. Oh, Carnies: ask Lyssa anything you want: it’s Free Therapy Consultation Day on ACOF!
2012 has been one hell of a year for me. I became a licensed therapist despite exhibiting clinical levels of cray-cray,
got engaged duped a handsome gentleman into giving me a diamond and posing for pictures where we’re both contractually smiling, was recently Freshly Pressed (and my post even had the F-word in it, for fuck’s sake), and, most importantly, I’ve finally been cured of my lifelong phobia of clowns.
Indeed, my paralyzing Coulrophobia all started when I saw Poltergeist as a young child – otherwise known as that one movie where the most horrible parents in the world bought the freakiest clown doll known to man and then sat it in a chair to watch their child sleep without considering the possibility that their house was built on an ancient burial ground whose dead spirits were none too pleased.
My post traumatic stress and parental resentment severely deepened after receiving a similarly terrifying clown doll of my very own. Being the budding therapist that I was, I naturally attempted to grab my fear by the red, squishy ball and give it a big fuck you.
My little brother willingly participated in this fear-busting case study in the name of science that involved us not only dressing up as clowns, but parading ourselves up and down the street to show the world how good we were at faking fearlessness. Let the record show – willingly, even though he’s wearing a skirt. Hell, we were progressive like that and my dress-up clothes only included those of the feminine variety. That, and Mom said I had to include him. Judge the clown, not us.
Looking back, I think I went a bit overboard with this course of treatment. After that I switched to a daily regimen of strawberry, Xanax, and vodka protein shakes.
Fast forward through the Birthday Party Debacle of 1994, the not-so-Sexy Circus Frat Party Incident of 2002, and years of therapy to February of 2012 when a clown of a certain charm started liking my posts. I didn’t know what to think. He was kind, but odd. Clever, yet disturbing. He was Canadian…of the French variety. And in my daily afternoon naps, he sounded like Iron Man.
Could I trust him that every day was indeed fucking magical?
Could I trust that White Baby Jesus really loves me as much as this grown clownman says he does?
Could I trust him to not watch me sleep while he plotted my slow and violent death?
After months of hilarious, heartfelt, and vulgar interaction, I finally realized that it was true…that he was MagnificentTM! And just like that, my cloud of fear and trauma was consumed by the fire in Le Clown’s eyes.
Because curing me of my childhood trauma wasn’t enough, I also knew I had finally passed the test of becoming a critically acclaimed writer, not when I was Freshly Pressed, but when Le Clown called me a Pain In The AssTM and then proceeded to offer me a spot on his MagnificentTM blogroll.
I might as well let myself go now, because it doesn’t get any better than this, folks.
Pass the mocha chip.