ripping top off

Mrs. Fitzpatrick ripped the top off my new box. The top had the picture, the whole point of the box was the picture. Utility means little to a 4 year old. The picture. She seemed like a savvy old wench, not one on whom the psychological implications of such an action would be lost. I am powerful, my power over you goes without saying, but more importantly it reaches into your most revered and intimate places. I can cause your mother to act, I can instruct her to buy you something, something with very specific criteria, dimensions and material. I can cause her to follow my detailed instructions dragging you in tow, she allows you to choose the box, you agonize over the myriad of choices, Ultraman or Underdog, you decide, you step through the door on your first day of kindergarten and I take the box from your mothers hands and "RRRrriipp". Your mother looks confused, stifling a protest, her trained tendency to unite with other authority figures trumps her natural inclination to say "why the fuck did we spend all day picking this thing out if you were going to destroy it"? She says nothing, Mrs. Fitzpatrick looks at you victoriously as if to say "no one can help you now".