Pointy boots

When I was just a little kid, about three years old, I had these pointy cowboy boots that I really loved. I remember it. I remember wearing those boots, and in my little three year old mind, thinking that the pointy toes of those boots were devastating weapons. I could kick anything to death with those pointy boots.  Kick them to death, and make them bloody all over.

Those pointy boots have always been a fond memory for me... one of the few happy memories I have as a child, and the reason is because my grandmother used to remind me of them all the time.  She used to say, in this endearing voice, imitating me as an innocent three year old with grandiose visions of death dealing, "I'll Kick you with my pointy boots and make you bloody all over!"

On one hand, it's just the ignorant playtime thoughts of a three year old.  I remember those boots.  I remember wearing them, and saying that exact thing...

"I'll kick you with my pointy boots and make you bloody all over!"

I remember that, and it's only a fun memory to me.  But dang...

That's kind of fucked up, ain't it?