I was never a Disney kid. Something about Mickey creeped me out. I think it was his laugh. That was the laugh of a serial killer. And Goofy…what the hell was that? A talking dog that had a dog as a pet? How messed up was that?
And don’t get me started on the murderous intentions in Peter Pan. Those mermaids straight up wanted to kill Wendy.
I was a Warner Brothers kid. I loved Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Yosemite Sam, and all those crazy dudes.
As much as I loved Warner Brothers cartoons and their dry sense of humour, I have to admit that, looking back, I have to blame them as the root of most of my anxieties.
Do you remember the cartoon where Sylvester the cat wakes up to find that his family has left to go on vacation?
He’s left all alone. Kinda like that psycho rich white kid in that Christmas movie I refuse to watch.
And then the cat has an anxiety attack realizing that there is no food in the kitchen except for canned cat food.
CANNED. CAT. FOOD.
For the next five minutes, Sylvester tries to open the cans. Explosions. Anvils. All the stuff.
And then a mouse comes out of the wall and twirls a can opener.
The chase begins. Cat pursues mouse and after much shenanigans, the cat comes out victorious with the can opener. He is saved from starvation!
BUT as Sylvester goes into the kitchen he sees that the cabinets are padlocked shut.
He hears a taunting whistle from behind him.
He turns to see a mouse, holding a key, and then he disappears into the wall.
Sylvester falls into a puddle, crying, starvation just around the corner.
That shit messed me up.
Nikki Nelson-Hicks 