I don't like purple. I never did.
I can't quite remember the time we fell out. Perhaps it was my grandmother's velour curtains clashing with her pea green carpet. Or the influx of purple and pink for teenage girls throughout my younger years – gleaming MySpace backgrounds and purple eyelids. Perhaps the onslaught of Care Bears and other cutesy animals. Or the terrifying smile of The Chesire Cat. Or it reminded me too much of painful bruises from too many failed attempts at the skate ramp.
Perhaps I have no real reason to dislike purple other than I've seen it so often misused. Mixed with pastel greens, wishy-washy lavender, a weak slap in the face. No bite. No growl. Or worse yet, with straight black. Like an extrovert goth. Damask patterns. Shining nebulas. Neither classy or bold, understated or loud. Just good old "nothing goes with me" purple.
But no. I remember now.
It was Barney the fucking dinosaur.
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