It pains me to inform you that you may have experienced an incomplete childhood if you weren't at some point exposed to the unique horror that is the Walt Disney classic, Alice in Wonderland.
Personally it's one of my favorite Disney movies—an irony that may reveal a good deal about my character—but we're not discussing that right now.
Let us not confuse our Alices, however: I'm not talking about the souped up CGI version that Johnny Depp blessed with his special brand of weirdness. I'm referring to the animated, illustrators tripping balls, leaves you paranoid about cats, rabbits, birds, caterpillars, flowers, walruses, bread, hats, mislabeled bottles, stocky twins, and pretty much all of the natural world, extraordinarily particular, 1950s freak show.
It's the kind of film that leaves me convinced Walt Disney hated children and wished bizarre complexes upon them. You know what my greatest fear as an adult is? Bitchy flowers who make fun of my ensemble. That's why all the plants in my house are fake.
And of course, who wouldn't enjoy a prepubescent existential crisis.
And this, cementing my fear of deep open water. Probably also treadmills.
Or this, in which my present day claustrophobia stems from the irrational belief that if I get trapped somewhere, some extinct asshole bird is going to come set me on fire, and I'll accidentally snot rocket a lizard into oblivion as a result.
Also, let's talk about this. Like, all of it. Specifically why it's the reason I'm afraid to look out into the darkness of my bedroom at night.
AND FINALLY, THIS, WHICH IS WHAT I ASSUME HAPPENS WHEN YOUR PHONE DIES AND YOU NO LONGER HAVE ACCESS TO GOOGLE MAPS.
So on that note, if you ever find me in a weeping heap next to the off-brand Sesame Street cosplayers in Times Square, please take pity.