My Matty Mattel Talking Doll

While meditating earlier today, a flashback leapt clear for me to assay, those ever receding early boyhood daze, now subsumed within fifty, plus nine shades of gray blissfully innocent naivety, (though blessed) no way would, aye desire to turn back the hands of father time (hypothetically), where unstructured play regularly with older sister (thirteen plus months my senior) predominantly slicing, sliding, and slipping stockinged feet skittering across slippery basement floor, this then soul full skinny thing bellowed hooray. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "I'm Matty Mattel; I got hurt; Can you go out?" Those words uttered by the very first pull-string talking doll Mattel did tout circa nineteen sixty revolutionizing the birth of quasi simulated (lifelike) toys, and made of common materials found scout ting around the house simply comprising hard vinyl (i.e. pseudo plaster of Paris) head he did flout with remaining body stuffed with padding, a definite no no (chew toy) when Fido about. Actually that pooch, would be Georgie to you, (a hybrid Boxer Dalmatian) with docked tail my young parents acquired, when as a newborn, aye did inconsolably wail though recollection of such memory fifty nine years ago tis of no avail yet, a resumption of meditation, sans lightness of being (analogous trancelike state), that doth prevail replaying silent film preceding, when psyche seem so frail plummeting into emotional abyss the nadir i.e. anorexia nervosa pleading return to nostalgic boyhood decrying change hide didst bewail!