So my dad dropped off a large box of VHS tapes the other day. As I combed through the box, he told me that they were old videos of when we (my brother, sister, and I) were young. Lots of footage of sports games and holidays, vacations and parties.
He wanted to know if I would be interested in taking them somewhere to be turned into DVD’s.
(I was already secretly planning the torturous marathon viewing session I would force my kids to sit through)
One catch, though, he says. You may want to check all the tapes before you send them off.
Me (wildly stupid): Why?
Him: Um, I’m not sure what’s on all of them.
Me: Come again?
Him: Well, there could be some … maybe … inappropriate content.
Me: Like … ?
Me: I’m sorry, WHAT?! (I scream in a high pitched animal cry)
Him: So, let me know when you get them converted. I’d love to see some footage of the old days.
Me: (mouth hanging open, look of horror on my face)
Him: See ya later!
And he heads out the door.
TOO. MUCH. INFORMATION.
This is a “hot poker to the brain” moment. A “why can’t that shit they do in the Total Recall movie be real” moment.
I burned the box of tapes. Fuck preserving my childhood. Now that my adulthood is officially ruined, what does it matter anyway.