Well, that’s what my parents claim, anyway. That’s how most of the crude, crayon portraits depicted of this creature that I called “the moon-bunny.” According to them, I started asking to sleep with them because a “scary bunny who came out of the sky and into my window.” After obliging me with an inspection (looking underneath my bed and out of my window), my mother dubbed my room monster-free and said that it was “probably just a friendly alien” and nothing to worry about. That’s right, folks: an adult told me that aliens were nothing to worry about, an assumption that would later be shattered by science fiction and horror films. Getting tired of accommodating my paranoia, my parents encouraged me to befriend the moon-bunny and even told me that it might show me its space ship if we became close enough. Soon thereafter, the moon-bunny shapeshifted from unwanted extraterrestrial presence to space bff in seconds flat. My parents often heard me “talking” to the moon-bunny at night, but didn’t want to disrupt my creative flow, as I was drawing and developing the talent that would come to color my future.
Like a little stereotypical 3 year-old, I would ramble on about my nightly hang-out sessions with the moon-bunny. I claimed that I was right about the moon-bunny coming from the sky because “I saw her fly into my room.” (The moon-bunny must have revealed its gender identity at some point.) Thinking that I had just forged my first imaginary friendship, my parents told me to invite the moon-bunny to dinner, mostly just for kicks and to see what my imagination could do, probably to photograph or record it like they did for a living. The next morning, I reported directly to the table as my robe-clad parents drank coffee and read the newspaper.