Like most, my childhood strived on three things: ice cream, whimsy, and action movies. But alas, children grow up, die a little inside and learn that the world is a terrible, terrible place full of crazy people. The only thing that saves us from breaking down and weeping is that little sparkle of joy that keeps you appreciating free candy, silly putty, and wearing no pants. The inner child is the little guy that says it’s still okay to have mindless unadulterated fun.
Now my inner child is my best friend, and I used to think nothing would ever tear us apart. But then these movies made sequels. And the bastards almost killed him. They almost killed him dead.
