As far as I can recall, it started around the time of puberty, as many things do. The seemingly magical appearance of hairs and pimples, coupled with the simultaneous breaking of my voice and my heart. It seemed as if girls became attractive to me at the same time that I became unattractive, resulting in a chronic state of unrequitedness.
I felt myself so inadequate that the solution to my dilemma must lie outside myself. It seemed that every comic book and men’s magazine offered solutions, which usually involved the purchase of some kind of product. I learned the hard way not to put faith in these ads after purchases of X-ray Specs and Spanish Fly proved disappointing.
I saw a mentalist on TV who was rising to be the next Uri Geller. He explained that he was able to read minds and perform telekinetic feats using the power of his will. He said that every human possessed that capability. In the same way that you can will your arm to move in the direction you wish, you can will items outside yourself to obey your will, since we co-create the universe. The strongest will determines what happens, however, so you have to practice strengthening your will. Johnny Carson made some jokes about it and the mentalist did his bit, but I took it to heart.
A couple of weeks later, after spending countless hours strengthening my will by trying to move pencils and Hot Wheels cars across my desk, I saw my crush walking towards the softball field. My heart dropped when I saw Billy, captain of the baseball team, walking towards her with a salacious grin on his face. I stomped my right foot down and simultaneously pushed my hands out in front of me, even though Billy was at least thirty yards away. To my surprise and delight, he fell backwards on his ass.
Unfortunately, my crush found his pratfall utterly endearing and they ended up dating. Not to be deterred, I returned home and continued practicing in earnest. I found that pencils and Hot Wheels were much less responsive to my will than living flesh. I could stop a frog’s heart by stomping my right foot and squeezing my left hand into a fist where I pictured the frog’s heart. I knew what they looked like from Biology class.
Years passed and I continued to practice, but no more stopping the hearts of innocent animals. Now I stand in a large hall attending a conference in a red hat along with many others similarly attired. A senior aide, balding with features that loudly spelled “cruelty,” stepped up to the microphone to enhance in sycophantic propaganda. He suffered an untimely fatal heart attack after comparing immigrants to cockroaches. It was all I could stand. Besides, I had stayed true to my maxim about stopping the hearts of innocent animals.
Literature in Small Doses 