As a child, I was blessed enough to see the reissue of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs in movie theaters. Taken by the story of Snow White (so beautiful!), I added her to my repertoire of role playing at home.
During the Snow White game, I would put on my mother’s Cathy t-shirt, which was a dress on a 6-year-old (though to be fair, I didn’t “put on” as much as I was already wearing it), and possibly my red terry-cloth robe. I’d go to the fridge. I’d pull out a shiny red apple and stare at it, then take a bite. The poison filled my blood stream. I felt light headed. Gracefully falling into an elegant s-shape, I lay supine on the kitchen tile, the apple still clutched in my hand (so I could finish it afterward).
Inevitably, my mother would walk in. Sighing, she’d step over my prone body. “Can you shut the fridge, please?” was her only comment. Maybe that’s why I became a critic.