When I was 8-years-old, my foster brother allowed me to play Super Mario 64 on his Nintendo. When I finally got the last star in Jolly Roger Bay, we both cheered a little too loudly, prompting my foster parents to barge into the room and whip me with a belt for playing video games when I, as a foster child, didn’t deserve to play anything other than Checkers or Connect-4. A few months later, my foster parents brought home McDonald’s and I thanked them profusely, as it was a break from the dry Ramen I was used to eating. They beat me bloody for speaking to them and locked me in my room (the water-heater closet) with nothing to eat but the pickles they picked off their Big Macs. Today, I suffer anxiety attacks any time I am forced to speak in a social situation. I know you were curious about “my bullshit” so thank you for asking