Our cave

Our cave


Our . . .CAVE?!

I was told I lived in a house. A house that looked like a puffin, with 6 barred windows and a worm in the basement.

But . . .  
Maybe this was all a ruse.
Maybe I have just accidentally uncovered the damning, lawsuit-busting evidence that they lied to me all this time about my childhood days, and further strengthened this lie by very cleverly putting photos of a house into our family albums, with pictures of all our faces PHOTOSHOPPED IN, when actually, we lived IN A CAVE.

Or . .

Maybe we did have a house, with 32 house-eating triffid-branches, but only THEY lived in it in pink luxury and acid-trip comfort, while I was kept alone in a cave in some kind of Grimm Fairytales set-up, and my parents fed me little scraps of gruel and wore lederhosen and danced around the tree outside. 

Looking at the picture of the cave again now, I do look a little….peaky, don’t you think? 

I seem to have squares for feet, my head is bigger than my torso and my eyes are outside my head, on stalks. Or are they my arms? I’m pretty sure arms don’t come off your head, even if you live in a cave. 

Also, if I lived in a cave, I seem to have developed some pretty serious sun-burn. 

This cave evidence bombshell is all HIGHLY CONFUSING AND SUSPICIOUS, and definitely something I need to look into more. 
I feel it might possibly contain very small clues which could go some way to explaining my claustrophobia, anxiety, low self esteem, depression, trust issues, sun-damaged forehead, excellent wall-carving skills and, now I come to think about it, fairly consistent lack of interest in cave diving throughout my twenties.  

I’ll get back to you on this one in the next post.

My First House

My First House