When I was five, my mom bought me a rubber as Garfield. I loved it. I wanted to smear my hands with the glue of the cat, crushing to leave it empty and running around my house like crazy Galatians.
My mom would not let me. He said that the rubber was for college. "College? Will a guy than you ever have told me? Or worse, will it be a son to my mom I have not submitted yet?
trembled. I was afraid. This paste should be mine, all mine. Our relationship should be like Garfield and lasagna: imperishable. Or as my mom and dad: endless.
Later, I discovered that the school was a place. Rather, it was a pigeon. Or at least that's what I understood when I said "nest." The day came, then, that the nest known as the master (to which my mother described as barbies, dolls but had nothing).
took my hands in rubber, rubber holy, sacred gum. I was ready to put me under my barbie-teacher and paste from noodles to balls of crepe paper. What is so open my gum.
However, the teacher had other plans. Maleficent I would say. With a broad smile, he asked: "What about your materials?". I goose as usual, I showed him my gum. I wanted to feel my happiness.
- Ah, "he said," You brought your rubber. Well, good. I'll put it with others.
And he did. The sky kept in a closet along with other gums or did not reach the heels of my fat Garfield. Moreover, they had ways and all were called 'David'.
I had to resign to "share" a word incomprehensible to an only child. From then until now, I used any other gum, but I did not ever see Garfield.
Sometimes I miss him. I wonder who have had the luck to hit him crepe paper ...
