I used to scoff a lot at the fact that I had no binding attachment to some oversaturated series on the market. The engorged entitlement in estranged mothers and fathers bringing home Harry Potter box sets or superhero pop figurines to fulfill their childrens’ temporary obsessions didn’t really compare to my interest in just making things on my own, or my faint interest that lacked that touch of physical satiation — the kind that would let me bring the toys to school and gain some self-confidence with that sweet, unrivaled fifteen minutes of classroom fame. After all, when Lisa Frank and sticker-ridden clearbooks lost their marvel, the only thing that could account for such was that market validation.
Then, I remember that I did have something in my youth, actually. Except it falls on the entire premise of being a complete and utter weeaboo. I then remember that at age seventeen, I am literally as captive to it as I was at the age of ten. I can’t help but to bring it up due to the influx of joke Facebook event pages that just scream out “Run like Boruto’s Dad!” with the unwavering support of both passerby and people who had grown up with this strange and utter mess of a show. I remember being around the age of eight — the High School Musical phase dying down and paving way to my onslaught towards that “liking boy-stuff is cool” mindset that my unmonitored usage of the internet had imposed on me. I’d turn on 9PM runs of Cartoon Network despite my complete lack of interest in Ben 10 — waiting for about 10 or 11PM where I would begin my nightly beg for my parents to let me watch Naruto. In utter defense for the long wait I would proclaim that I was done with all my homework or that I hadn’t actually been watching the past five or so shows anyway. It is Naruto, after all. Thus began its intertwine in my life, and how it had passively molded me throughout all these years; with the growth of the series came mine as well.