alex windecker was, at age six, a strict freudian. his older sister's bitchiness? he diagnosed that as pure penis envy. how could it be elsewise? his own penis was a beaut, a tad undersized for his age he'd concede, but it had smooth surfaces without nasty veins and tipped by a cute mushroom top. his sister could only wish she had something similar. instead she had to make do with having that "trench with the stench" as her ex boyfriend called her sad, second best genitalia. no wonder she stomped about, angry about everything, totally clueless that the source of her anger was what dangled between his legs but not hers. so simple. and his dad's love of archery? pure phallic acting out with each arrow but a penis forcing itself into the vaginal substitute of a hay bale. he supposed his father had rapist tendencies which, thank god for sublimation, he had not acted on, but then again who knew what would happen if the bow string snapped, or the arrows ran out. his mother? ah, his mother. he knew that wanting to sleep with his mother was normal. he just didn't understand why she got on him for rummaging through her underpants drawers or for putting that hidden cam in her shower. he had no plans to act on these impulses. and he be damned if he resolved his oedipus complex one day sooner than necessary. yes, it was a good life he had, except for one thing. that one thing? his older brother bill. he was jungian. a fucking man and his symbols jungian.
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