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My name is wembley, and I am a girl who mutilated. On one hand, it was my brother who really tore apart my Barbie dolls, but I was pretty ruthless with old, falling-apart GI Joes, a magnifying glass, and a sunny day. I hated Barbie - loathed it. What on earth kind of enjoyment are you supposed to get from the permanently-on-her-toes, same-as-ALL-the-others, drives-a-pink-goddamn-car doll? Too big to involve in war with GI Joes, too small to get attached to, and so utterly boring. What do you do? Play shopping?!? So naturally, when it came time that I was curious as to what would happen if I cut a doll's hair, Barbie was the obvious, expendable candidate. But the rare toys, the doll my mother made, the ones that were actually special, I'd get teary-eyed and nervous when my mom put them through the laundry. And books - never mutilated books.
But the thing about Barbie - and those heartless Cabbage Patch Kids (lord, how I begged for one all year and then never gave a toss about it) is that it's so cheap. It's the same. It's junk. Kids know it's junk. GI Joe dolls come apart after 100 or so parachute missions - everybody knows this - so who cares if you burn a hole through its torso, because you can always get another. The fact that they're human shaped just helps the imagination along, I think. It's not fun to burn books because you can't imagine them suffering - then you've just ruined a book. But for me, the idea would not be to inflict pain upon a doll, but to identify with it, make some kind of a swan song storyline around the doll, imagine that you're captured by pirates and they shave your head, etc. But the whole "I'm older now and I reject you, Barbie" thing I can't understand, because I hated that doll from the very beginning. I never understood the appeal, and I suspected that nobody actually enjoyed playing with Barbie dolls.
Incidentally, naked Barbie without her head always reminded me of a stretched pre-roast turkey. |
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