It has come to my attention that the number of cosplayers offended by my blog posts is increasing at a terrifying rate. I also noticed that some people already know why I find cosplayers pathetic - because I live a worse life than them and cosplayers have hurt me in the past.True enough, my history with cosplayers is what compelled me to use this blog as an outlet of my resentment. Honestly, it pains my heart to see so much outrage against my little vent. Now that I'm aware I've hit a lot of readers below the belt, I believe it's time to tell them my side of the story and explain my hate. I do not expect complete forgiveness, but I at least hope cosplayers can sympathize if I show them the grounds of my actions.
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I come from a very poor family that fed on canned goods and instant noodles. We were nomads. Like vultures preying on the dead, we moved from one place to another, always hunting for the major disaster where charitable institutions are sure to lend a hand. We strived on whatever excess people were willing to throw away.
Living on the bare minimum of basic human needs took its toll. When I turned 6, I hated the world. I couldn't understand why my world was so restricted to traveling barefoot, sleeping on the streets beside dog poo, and feeding on pity food. Bitterness took away my only precious thing - my honor - and I started to reject my values. I fought other street children for no reason, stole from beggars and blind performers, consumed unholy amounts of thinner and rugby, talked back to my parents, and eventually separated from my pack to live on my own. I had no fear for I had nothing to lose. Scraps helped me survive over a year before an NGO took me in.
Albeit against my will, I was taken into custody by a group of people that kept other kids like me in a little house. There and then I saw myself through at least 20 pairs of eyes, and I thought I just met new friends. The generous organization provided me a decent life for about four years. The first few months were intolerable as I refused to accept any unwanted help, but my primal needs prevailed and I had to stick around for the food and clothes (contrary to popular belief, I wasn't an exhibitionist in my childhood). Later on I grew to like the children that were with me, and the adults who cared for us earned my trust.
Unfortunately, all good things don't last. My happy days with the NGO was no exception. Memory tells me I was 10 when a handsome white guy hand-picked me out of my newfound home. Soon I learned he was the Frenchman who founded the group, and he told me I was old enough for circumcision. To my delight someone finally answered my prayers, I thought. Long have I been teased for being uncut, but the day to end the misery has come.
To my dismay, mister Frenchman wasn't entirely about good will. After the rite that turned me into a man from a boy, he took me to his place. At the time I had no grasp of the English language, so my only option was to trust the English-speaking Frenchman. He kept me in a room that soon turned out to be a hellhole. And by soon, I mean very soon.
The day after I shed skin, I woke up to the pains of my now proud member. A few minutes passed and the door to my prison opened, then the Frenchman greeted me in extravagant clothes I've never seen before. With a whip in one hand, I had no idea what he was trying to do. I do remember the events oh so clearly.
"Where is Cinderella, boy?!", he shouted at me with murderous intent. He then lunged at me, grabbed my shoulder to keep me in place, and aggresively pulled my shorts down. "We gotta hurry and find her, boy!" His whip snapped against the ground as he leered at my naked bottom. Inexplicable pain struck me. Before I knew it, my circumsized junior-sized penis was already swollen red.
"Oooh, nangangamatis!" His accent when speaking my native tongue was almost as unbearable as his actions. Almost. Nothing is more vile than the way he continuously flicked his painful whip at my unprotected shlong.
The abuse went on for a week, but only after hundreds of lashes around my crotch and several years later did I realize he was trying to act out the coachman in the fairy tale, Cinderella. He dressed up in a coachman COStume, and PLAYed the role of a sicko who's in a rush to find the missing lady. He probably thought of my "nangangamatis" penis as the pumpkin that the fairy godmother turned into a coach.
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This is where my harsh feelings for cosplay began. If you want more of the story, I'd be more than glad to have the company of open ears. I heartfully request your sympathy and hope I can be forgiven for my extreme anti-cosplayer actions these past few days.
(Please respect this post. Don't make fun of my past...)
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